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THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


EARTH 

AUTUMN 

THE HIDDEN VALLEY 
THE BEST IN LIFE 
THE INDIVIDUAL 
APRIL PANHASARD 
HALF IN EARNEST 
THE MAN WITH THE 
DOUBLE HEART 



THE 

BREATHLESS MOMENT 


BY 

MURIEL HINE 


NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 


LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD 
MCMXX 


COPYRIGHT, 


IQ20, BY JOHN LANE COMPANY 


( 




< * 


JUL 


Q 


u 


THE'PLIMPION'PIESS NORWOOD-MASS-U-S-A 


©CI.A571958 





To 

D’ARCY M. DAWES 



BOOK I 



THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


CHAPTER I 

W ITH the letter tightly clasped in her hand, Sabine turned 
away from the office and paused at the head of the 
shallow steps leading to the hotel gardens. 

A stout gentleman on the porch, enjoying an equally stout 
cigar, glanced up with appreciation, endeavouring to catch her 
eye. Failing in this, he resorted to speech. 

“ Going to be hot,” he suggested with a suitably judicial air. 
Sabine nodded absently, her fingers playing with the seal, 
as yet unbroken, of the letter. 

“Unusually hot for the time of year.” The elderly bore be- 
lieved in persistence. “Though you look cool enough, Miss Fane.” 
He continued to stare at the silent figure, slim in her straight 
linen gown, loosely girdled at the waist. “Nothing like white 
for a woman — white or black. Don’t give me colours! That’s 
where your sex, if I may say so — ” He paused, his mouth 
half-open. Sabine had slipped past him. “Well — !” He 
grunted, discomfited, watching her skim the hot gravel where 
little grains of flint glittered under the fierce rays of the sun, 
and admiring, a trifle grudgingly, her free step, instinct with 
youth. “She might have had the civility — ” He left the 
grumble unfinished as he saw her turn her dark head; a voice 
had hailed her from the lawn: 

“Come and play? Just a knock-up?” A flapper, alone on 
the tennis-court, in the midst of practising a vicious over-hand 
“serve,” was waving her racket invitingly. 

Sabine resisted the temptation. 

“Not just now. Later, perhaps.” 

“Oh, very well!” The flapper scowled and cut a ball across 
the net with a backward kick of a long, thin leg encased in 


9 


IO 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


diaphanous silk stocking. The elderly gentleman moved his 
chair to a better point of vantage, and resumed his study of the 
sex. 

On went Sabine, avoiding a group of people under a shady 
tree, one of whom beckoned to her, and, skirting the thick 
valerian hedge where the dull red flowers drooped in the heat, 
she passed through a little gate and emerged on to no man’s 
land, a strip of wiry, sun-bleached turf fringing the edge of 
the cliff. This she crossed and made her way down a zigzag 
path to where a bench, sheltered by feathery tamarisk, com- 
manded a wide view of the bay. Beyond the seat a diminutive 
landslip had loosened the rich red soil, forming a natural bar- 
ricade. Here was the solitude she sought. 

She settled herself on the low bench. In the action was the 
unconscious grace of a woman sure of herself and accustomed 
to move in a social crowd. It added to the sense of perfection 
in every line of her dress, simple yet dainty, holding a hint of 
dignity unusual in youth. A “girl of the world,” some man had 
called her, and the epithet had been well-chosen. 

Beneath her lay the blue sea, smooth and metallic, motion- 
less, save where a quiver ran along the border of the pebbly 
beach, or its sucked-in breath marked the presence of a half- 
submerged rock. The sky was like a tight blue cloth, without 
a crease, through which the sun had burnt a hole with frayed 
edges. In the still air was the presage of thunder. 

“Now!” said Sabine and opened her letter. 

Her face was pale beneath its tan. Her mouth — the one 
perfect feature in her irregular, charming face — was compressed 
to a thin, red line, betraying the tension of her mood. 

She went through the letter deliberately twice, as though com- 
mitting the words to heart, with no quickening of the breath, no 
flicker of the lowered eyelids. Only her dark brows drew to- 
gether, suggestive of concentration. 

Finally she raised her head and stared out across the sea, ob- 
livious of the picture made by the slumbering fishing-fleet, brown 
sails sagging limply, becalmed on the other side of the bay. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


ii 


Slowly, in the depths of her eyes — brown eyes with golden 
lights — something stirred: a flicker of laughter. For, a shade 
bewildered, she realised that her most definite sensation was not 
of despair but of relief; an immense relief that bordered humour. 

To know the worst; to be sure at last; to have done with those 
endless legal letters and stand braced, to meet the future — what 
a relief, what a blessed relief! Spontaneously she laughed aloud. 
And with the clear, musical note a memory rose of her father, on 
a certain night when he had learnt of the failure of a speculation 
dear to his heart — one of many! She could see again that hand- 
some face, dark with anger and resentment, and then the swift 
bewildering change, typical of his volatile nature, as he digested 
the sorry jest, the loss but whetting his appetite for further fields 
of adventure. Yes, she was a Fane too. She straightened her 
graceful shoulders. Life was not only a question of ease, of 
monotonous, fair sailing; life at its best was a sporting affair, of 
taking risks with a tight lip, winning here, losing there. This 
was a new test of courage. 

“All the same,” she thought aloud, “I’m glad the poor old 
darling’s gone, before this war — that he didn’t know. It’s odd 
that his one impulse of prudence should have ended in disaster. 
If he’d left his money where it was there would have been a 
certain income. But now Germany is the winner.” Her eyes 
grew sombre. “That’s what hurts! How I wish we’d never 
gone to Frankfort and met Baron von Freiling and his friends. 
To say nothing of his wife! ” 

A faint smile, half-pitiful, half-charged with irony, was checked 
by teeth that caught her lip. She felt the sudden fear of those 
who think lightly of the dead. 

For Fane’s weakness had not escaped the eyes of his only 
daughter. She knew the extent of his attraction for the opposite 
sex and how it had formed a useful lever in his business, yet 
become at times a dangerous weapon that turned against the 
man himself in the crises of emotion. With all his knowledge of 
the world he had preserved a curious freshness, an exuberance of 
vitality, that warred with the caution of his brain. His affair 


12 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


with the German Baroness had been the last of a long series of 
Continental adventures. In this instance the husband had scored. 

Sabine’s mind drifted back, through the changing scenes of 
early years, to her mother, a gracious presence but always remote, 
absorbed in her husband and the endless whirl of social endeavour. 

Her money, generously offered, had been the turning-point in 
his fortune. Connected with an insurance firm of good standing 
but old-fashioned views, Fane, shortly after his marriage, decided 
upon a more vigorous programme, sacrificing the capital his wife 
had brought him in a course of entertaining, at first sight reckless, 
but justified by results. Wherever the gay crowd moved, there 
could be found Fane and his wife and the open hospitality of their 
villa or their yacht. They sowed money and reaped it twofold. 
Fane’s gambling spirit was satisfied. 

Homburg, Cairo, Trouville, Monte were the brief stations of 
Sabine’s childhood between the longer intervals of her education 
at Lausanne, a convenient centre for her parents. Often she 
spent her holidays at the pleasant Swiss school, or in some quiet 
pension with Dillon, her faithful nurse, half-forgotten by her 
mother save for brief flying visits. But, after the latter’s sudden 
death, Fane, stunned by the heavy blow, had turned instinctively 
to his daughter. To Sabine there opened out a magical life, shorn 
of lessons beyond a few accomplishments, in her father’s com- 
pany at an age when most English girls are kept firmly in the 
background. She rose to it like an eager fledgling. At twenty- 
one she was on a par mentally with the average woman ten 
years her senior; a competent mistress of a house, an able 
linguist, with perfect assurance and a secret distrust of the ways 
of men which, without embittering her outlook, preserved her 
from the obvious pitfalls of her father’s easy rule. Not that he 
neglected her or permitted any light adventure. But thought- 
lessly, as the years rolled on, he accepted this girl with her clever 
brain, her love of life which equalled his own, and her charm 
inherited from himself, as his equal and confidante, filling the 
gulf left by his wife. They were partners in the Great Game, 
with few reserves and a mutual indulgence. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


*3 


She saved him from remarriage; at once his excuse and his 
defence. For Fane loved his liberty. But she could not save 
him from the results of his ardent temperament, though at first 
he shielded her from the knowledge. Only his wife could have 
done this. Mixing in a gay crowd, cosmopolitan in its morals, 
her young eyes probed his secrets. They bred in her, after the 
first bewilderment and disillusion, an unusual clearness of vision. 
Men were plainly polygamists. It behoved her, therefore, to be 
wary and hold aloof from romance, enjoying their society, but 
resolute in her reserves. 

When in doubt she turned to Dillon, a true-hearted Irish- 
woman who occupied a position more akin to friendship than to 
service and never swerved in her loyalty to her widowed master 
and his child. 

Her homely philosophy — the philosophy of a peasant ac- 
cepting the “ways of Nature,” a shade biased where her affec- 
tions were inextricably involved — proved a refuge and consola- 
tion to her sorely puzzled charge. If “Dilly” knew, it was all 
right. “Dilly’s” statement that “the master, bless him,” must not 
be hardly judged on account of his “great sorrow” and the 
“charm of him that lepped to the eyes,” held good for many a day. 
Yet it made her fastidious in her friendships. For her were no 
maiden fancies. Only an exceptional man, as yet unmet, could 
reconcile her to the disadvantages of a slate so intimate as 
marriage, yet bound by so frail a tie. 

Life, meanwhile, was very pleasant, full of movement and 
adventure. The gaiety that goes hand in hand in the South with 
all love intrigue, so different from the gloomy remorse that seems 
to haunt Northern races, blurred the issue, and Sabine’s youth 
detected the element of sport. 

At times she watched her father’s skill with the fairer sex in 
admiration, scolding him openly, a twinkle in her brown eyes. 
Fane, shameless, would plead guilty but suggest that it was 
“good for business.” 

Yet, oddly enough, the happiest year in all their wandering 
companionship had for its setting a quiet house in a green Eng- 


14 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


lish lane. Fane’s health had been failing fast. Settling his 
business he retired to the old scenes of his boyhood, renting a 
small property with beautiful grounds in the West Country. 

Here were new joys for Sabine. Long rides, when his health 
permitted, with Fane, aged but ever brilliant, and quiet evenings 
devoted to books, music and drifting conversation, opened up to 
the young girl another vista more generous in its simple happiness, 
cleaner, sweeter than she had known. For the first time she 
owned her father. She took the country to her heart. England 
claimed her, the home of her forbears. Even the narrow moral 
code that refused to probe beneath the surface, drawing a rigid 
black line between conventional virtue and vice, held something 
definite and restful. The sense of the cruel parting before them 
— for Fane was doomed from the start — brought a more 
poignant touch of affection into the still and tranquil days. She 
knew that love which is, perhaps, the sweetest in a woman’s life 
when a virile man attacked by weakness turns to his dear one to 
drain courage and consolation through darkest hours. 

His end justified his creed of the gambler’s luck, and upset all 
conventional theories. No saint could have had a more peaceful 
passing. As Sabine kissed the still lips that had brushed so many 
laughing cheeks, now cold but fixed in a peaceful smile, she 
could thank God brokenly that pain held no more terrors for 
him. 

There followed long, blank days as the leaves grew golden and 
slipped from the trees and Dillon watched over the living and 
wove strange fancies around the dead. In the depths of her 
faithful heart she was assured of Fane’s “salvation.” A mere 
pinch of Purgatory and then reunion with Sabine’s mother, wait- 
ing proudly in Paradise where he would have a fine welcome. 
Not even the Blessed Virgin herself could withstand “the master’s 
charm”! 

Winter was to be the test of Sabine’s new-found love of the 
country. She emerged victorious from the ordeal and at the 
end of the short lease, left with regret the low, white house with 
its fern-like cloak of wistaria. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


1 5 


Spring found the pair in London to complete affairs with the 
lawyers. Partly on Baron von Freiling’s advice but mainly 
through the curious fear of a man who feels the approach of 
death and becomes insecure in his own opinions, Fane had invested 
the greater part of his capital, weakened by speculations, in vari- 
ous German industrial stocks with which his new friend was con- 
nected. No shadow of war then dimmed the land and Sabine, 
though temporarily affected by the death duties and standing 
debts, was assured of a good income. She escaped from the dust 
and noise of London to a quiet hotel in Devonshire where she 
could “economize” — as she called it — and make plans for the 
future. 

Although she still mourned her father, the knowledge that an 
outward show of grief would have been repugnant to him and 
her own healthy common sense forced her out into the open. She 
made friends easily with the pleasant holiday crowd, more or less 
stunned and incredulous when war suddenly broke loose, but 
optimistic as to its length. It was more obvious in the papers 
than in its effect on daily life in this quiet backwater, washed by 
those waves which England still ruled and buttressed by Tradition, 

Then, like a shell from the far-off guns, fell the ominous legal 
warning, followed by others — long-winded, involved — camou- 
flaging financial ruin. For weeks she had hung on the brink of 
disaster, hoping, fearing, no definite news available in the vast 
debacle and harassed by uncertainty. 

Now, at last, she knew the worst. The capital was locked up, 
if not irretrievably lost; there could be no dividends. Her 
credit at the bank was low. From a solitary English source she 
could expect, if all went well, a pittance that amounted to her 
normal expenses in shoes and gloves. Otherwise she had no 
prospects. The senior partner who had known her father for 
many years wrote a grave letter of sympathy and advised her to 
seek “a home with relations.” 

Sabine smiled, her eyes on the sea, considering this suggestion. 
Fane had cut himself adrift long since from his family, but at 
his funeral a gaunt brother had appeared with an air of conferring 


i6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


a favour; had engaged and lost in a passage of arms with Dillon, 
who resented his manner and his suspicious questionings, retiring 
finally with the air of washing his hands of the younger branch. 
Mrs. Fane had been an orphan; there were no links to reforge on 
that side. “Uncle Herbert” stood alone. Sabine played for a mo- 
ment with the appalling thought of turning to him for assistance. 

“I think that Charity would be strained on both sides,” she 
decided, “in a ‘home’ with Uncle Herbert. Though it might be 
diverting to watch Dilly — ” She paused, aghast. For the first 
time the full force of the blow reached her. She could no longer 
afford a maid. Dillon was involved in her ruin. 

The dazzling scene ran blurred before her; brown sails and 
blue sea merged in an opalescent mist. With an effort she 
mastered the feeling of panic, clutching at a saving grace. 

“But Dilly is provided for. She can’t starve. Thank Heaven! 
I’m glad the old darling thought of that.” Her beautiful mouth 
took a tender curve. 

For Fane had rewarded the faithful creature a few months 
before his death with the gift of an annuity that brought her in 
eighty pounds a year. He foresaw that a large sum in money 
might lay her open to designs wearing a matrimonial cloak, at 
the hands of some worthless fellow. Unwittingly he secured for 
her a steadier income than for his child. 

A whimsical idea caught Sabine as she realised the situation: 
Dilly, mistress of a cottage and herself the dutiful maid-of-all- 
work. A paradox bred by war! 

“I shouldn’t mind.” Her eyes twinkled. “I’d rather clean 
Dilly’s boots any day than Uncle Herbert’s. To begin with 
they’d be smaller!” 

From the rocks below a clamour rose, some sharp dispute 
among the gulls. Silvery wings flashed in the sunshine. Then, 
as swiftly as it had begun, the raucous outburst died away, 
swallowed up in the sultry peace. Sabine leaned forward, chin 
propped on her slender hands, the light glinting from off her 
rings and drawing a flash from the steel buckles on her pretty 
grey shoes. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


17 


“And those aren’t paid for yet,” she thought. 

The rueful reminder steadied her. It was no use dreaming in 
the sunshine. She must evolve some plan of action. To what 
purpose could her education and knowledge of life be put at this 
juncture? She would never live on charity and as to marriage — 
she shrugged her shoulders. She was no great believer in love. 
She had seen its shadow, satiety, dogging passion too closely. 
Resolutely she put away the memory of two men who had 
refused to abandon hope. 

“I shall never sell myself,” she decided. “If it has to come, 
love must be a gift.” 

By her side on the blistered bench was a crumpled copy of the 
Times , left by a former occupant. She picked it up and opened 
it at the crowded advertisement page. It might give her some 
idea of posts open at the moment. 

The war checked her at the outset. Languages were her 
strongest asset. But who needed a travelling companion, or a 
foreign chaperon nowadays? The Continent was forbidden 
ground, given over to the armies. As yet there had been no call 
for women to replace men, though an eager rush to Red Cross 
lectures had resulted from the first demand for hospital work. 
The nursing profession entailed long training and she could not 
afford to undertake any voluntary task. There remained the 
traditional role for women thrown back on their own resources, 
and educated: to teach the young. She studied the openings for 
governesses. 

She found her knowledge inadequate. To speak diplomatic 
French without competent mathematics and a whole host of other 
subjects, music, harmony, elocution, “physical culture” — what- 
ever that meant — was to descend obviously to the rank of 
“nursery governess” according to the Timers requirements. 
Salary thirty pounds a year! Sabine gave a scornful chuckle. 

“Dilly’s boots before that! What an amazing amount they 
expect. With ‘refinement’, ‘good temper’, superb health and ‘re- 
ligion.’ In return for a mere pittance — sufficient to hide one’s 
nakedness. Impossible to dress on it! I’d far sooner be a 


i8 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


servant. They are decently provided for and allowed some 
liberty. I could insist on my ‘days out’!” She laughed aloud at 
the thought. 

But she struggled on through the dazzling print, past “com- 
petent nurses” and “mother's helps” — a post that set her won- 
dering — to “lady-cooks,” the baits too obvious, until she came 
to “housekeepers.” 

The heading brought a faint sense of relief. It held a certain 
suggestion of power, a midway post between ruler and ruled. 
She felt an amused interest in it. If she had managed her 
father's house in many countries, adapting herself to local con- 
ditions of service and food, surely her experiences fitted her for 
this post in England, with all its wealth of home comforts. 

“I should have some corner to myself, even if it were a bare 
one.” She smoothed out the crumpled sheet before her. “I 
might even find room for Dilly. She'd undertake any work to live 
under the same roof. Or she could settle in a cottage in the 
vicinity. I could visit her on my ‘evenings out'.” Her optimism 
clutched at the straw. 

She began to consider it seriously. 

There were only four advertisements. The first three she 
passed over. They were for London and the suburbs and her 
scheme called for a rural background. But the last fulfilled this 
requirement. 

Wanted: a lady to undertake the management of a 
quiet house and light secretarial duties. No housework 
save charge of dairy. Two in family. Four servants. 
Must be able to drive and fond of the country. Good 
salary if competent. Permanent situation. Write Val- 
lance, Liddingcombe, Devon. 

She read it through thoughtfully, caught by something in the 
wording. 

“It's original. ‘Secretarial duties’? I wonder what that im- 
plies? Either the owner’s been well served or is a confirmed 
idealist to add that ‘Permanent situation’ as a lure to the modern 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


19 

retainer. Or perhaps it means that it’s not for War-time, to end 
when Peace is declared? But it doesn’t ask me to be a Christian 
according to my employer’s creed. Only to understand my 
business! That’s a distinct advantage. With no allusion to my 
temper — I needn’t even be ‘refined’! Liddingcombe? The 
name’s familiar. If it’s anywhere near here I’ve a great mind to 
go prospecting before I write. I’d prefer to form my own im- 
pressions, and letters are rarely enlightening.” 

She tore out the advertisement and rose to her feet. For a 
long moment she studied the blue expanse of sea. It seemed to 
embody a sense of freedom and there came a tightening at her 
heart. 

Far away on the sky-line were two long dots that moved 
swiftly. Her eyes narrowed. Ships of war. She turned on 
herself angrily. Across that strip of blue water there were 
men fighting, giving their lives for the freedom of the world, and 
yet she shrank from a touch of discomfort! 

Work? It was a fine adventure. Meanwhile there was Dilly 
to soothe and placate — poor, dear, old Dilly! 

“And that’s the hardest part,” thought Sabine. 


CHAPTER II 


T HERE were no cabs at Lidding Junction. A five-mile walk 
lay before Sabine, “seeking a situation” — the first check 
to her ardour. 

The narrow lanes with their high banks were oppressively hot 
and deep in dust as she tramped on determinedly, recalling the 
station-master’s directions. 

Lidding St. Mary would come first, with its village and the 
manor house. Then the turning near the church that would lead 
her to the path by the river, which wound between high wooded 
banks on its last great adventure, meeting its tidal lover in the 
fishing hamlet of Liddingcombe. 

The station-master had been vague in answer to Sabine’s eager 
questions regarding her destination, his knowledge of Lidding- 
combe confined apparently to the fact that an aunt of his had 
once lived there and found it very “out o’ the way.” It could 
not compare with Lidding Junction for purposes of gaiety. 

Sabine smiled, remembering this, as she trudged on through 
the sleepy silence. She seemed to be mounting steadily, with 
little dips between the hills where she drew breath in the shade 
of the trees that clung to the verdant hollows. But, at last, after 
a sterner climb she emerged on to open moorland, where the 
gorse stretched in yellow waves, beating back the fierce heat like 
a golden shield, faintly studded by dwarfed bushes of whortle- 
berry. Here and there a vivid patch of sun-stained moss marked 
the source of a dried-up spring amidst spikes of rush. Larks 
sang in the blue heavens. 

“I wonder they’re not cooked,” thought Sabine, blinking in the 
dazzling glare. 


20 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


21 


She sat down on a hillock to remove an intrusive pebble that 
had found its way into one grey shoe. 

The solitude seemed overpowering. Still nursing her injured 
foot she scanned the wide scorching prospect. In vain she sought 
for the church spire of Lidding St. Mary, the promised land- 
mark dwelt upon by the station-master. No sign of human 
habitation loomed up on the hazy horizon; only the far-off line 
of the sea. 

She thought of Dillon, red-eyed, prophetic, from whom she 
had parted at the hotel, obstinate in her contention that her 
mistress was “never intinded for work. And what would the 
poor master (God rest him) say? With her living on his money!” 
No good would come from this expedition. If only she would be 
“led by Dilly.” 

The faithful creature had pleaded in vain for a cottage main- 
tained by her savings, together with the annuity, where Sabine 
could keep up a modest farce of gentility, whilst Dillon laboured 
to support them both “till the cloud blew over.” The war could 
not last for long. Dillon here was optimistic. Meanw r hile an 
active woman could easily find daily employment. There was no 
need for Fane’s daughter to dream of “soiling her pretty hands.” 

But Sabine held to her intention, kissing away the old woman’s 
tears. Dilly could live in a cottage close by and keep an eye on 
her darling. She was set upon going to Liddingcombe. 

Now Dillon’s parting words recurred to her, with their flicker 
of temper: “ ’Tis lost you’ll be in them heathenish parts. With 
tramps and the heat beyond bearing. ’Tis going agin the face of 
Nature.” 

Sabine, smoothing her silk stocking, decided that the face of 
Nature on Lidding Moor was not reassuring. Had she, by 
chance, missed the road? 

Across her mood, which veered between exasperation and 
amusement, came a distant and most welcome sound, the steady 
beat of approaching hoofs. She glanced back along the road with 
a lightening of the spirit. On the brow of the hill was a black 
dot that resolved itself into a heavy landau, drawn by a strong 


22 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


pair of horses in charge of a burly coachman, grotesque in a new 
panama. Beside him was revealed its twin on the head of a lean 
footman. Both men were in plum-coloured livery, their buttons 
glinting in the sunshine. The yellow wheels of the carriage 
added a touch of magnificence. 

Sabine hurriedly slid on her shoe and stood up. Here was 
a chance of settling the doubt in her mind. As the carriage 
slowly drew abreast she stepped forward and hailed the coach- 
man. He seemed to be half-asleep and drew in his horses with a 
jerk. 

“Liddingcombe?” He stared at her stupidly, resenting the 
check. 

From the roomy interior of the landau came a drowsy voice: 

“Eh? What’s that?” 

Sabine, despairing of the driver, turned her attention to his 
employer. 

She saw a stout, red-faced woman propped up against a 
cushion of plum-coloured silk, her eyes blinking; small but good- 
humoured eyes buried in fat that seemed to invade the whole of 
her ornate person. 

“I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I’m afraid I’ve lost my way.” 
Instinctively Sabine smiled; the stout lady looked so friendly. 
“I’m trying to get to Liddingcombe. Is this the direct road?” 

“You don’t mean Lidding St. Mary?” In the question was 
an eagerness that puzzled Sabine. 

“Well, partly. I understand that comes first — that Lidding- 
combe is farther still?” 

“A good mile,” said the stout lady. She put up a hand in a 
tight kid glove and straightened a hat that seemed to contain 
every well-known type of flower; then solemnly raised her 
lorgnette and stared at the questioner. This scrutiny seemed to 
satisfy her. “It’s a long step.” Her smile widened. “If you 
like” — she hesitated, then plunged — “I could give you a lift. 
I live at the Manor, Lidding St. Mary. I’m on my way ’ome 
now.” 

Sabine, inwardly taken aback, murmured indistinct thanks. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


23 

The footman descended from the box slowly. His lean face looked 
mistrustful as he opened the carriage door. 

“He doesn’t approve,” thought Sabine, amused. “But I’m 
not going to lose this gift from the gods.” 

“It’s very kind of you,” she said, aloud, to her benefactress; 
“it is so hot, walking, to-day.” 

“Then get in, m’dear,” said the stout lady. 

The footman solemnly arranged the dust-cloth across her 
knees. It had a large monogram embroidered in plum-colour in 
the centre, a J and G intertwined. The carriage rolled on again. 
Sabine leaned back with a sigh of relief. 

“Perhaps you’re staying in these parts?” Again the girl 
caught a note of eagerness in the question, but without waiting 
for an answer the stout lady babbled on: “If so, you’ll have 
heard of me. I’m Lady Gull.” She stole a glance sideways to 
mark the effect of this. “Wife of Sir Joshua Gull. Lidding St. 
Mary’s our country seat.” 

The thought flashed across Sabine that it must be a solid one. 

“Indeed?” She steadied her expression. “It’s a charming 
country, isn’t it?” 

“So every one says.” The stout lady appeared to be undecided. 
“I dare say I’ll get used to it. You see I come from the North. 
I suppose I miss the old faces. We knew every one in Bradford. 
Every one as was worth knowing.” She sank deeper into her 
cushion. “If I go to sleep, mind you wake me. I’m afraid it’s 
a bad ’abit of mine. My daughter’s always at me about it. 
But there’s something in carriage exercise that makes me want to 
shut me eyes.” 

“It’s drowsy weather,” Sabine responded, struggling with her 
inward mirth. 

“Ah, you feel the ’eat yerself?” The stout lady looked pleased. 
“Henrietta’s so energetic. Never still, like ’er father! I don’t 
wonder that she’s thin. Too thin.” She laid stress on the words 
with a faint vindictiveness. “In my time we thought a girl — a 
young girl — ought to be plump, but now they want to look like 
flag-poles. And I’m sure they don’t enjoy life, not as we used to. 


*4 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


So restless! Perhaps it's their education.” Her head nodded. 
She stirred herself. “You mustn’t think I’m not proud of my 
girl. She’s wonderful — bent on improvement. Always im- 
proving something or some one, or what she calls ‘social condi- 
tions.’ But the trouble is, at Lidding St. Mary, they don’t want 
to be improved. And they aren’t grateful. It ’urts my daughter, 
though she won’t give in. She’s that sort. P’raps you think it’s 
odd of me saying all this to a stranger?” She was suddenly on the 
defensive. 

“Not at all. It’s so interesting.” Sabine met the anxious 
glance sideways with a soothing smile. She felt a queer touch of 
pity for her new friend who was plainly made for a different 
setting and who found herself lonely as lady of the manor. “I 
understand the difficulty. The West Country’s conservative. It 
doesn’t take kindly to new methods. It’s quite contented with 
the old.” 

“You’re right, m’dear.” The flower-burdened hat nodded 
and sank to rest again. “That’s what I tell Henrietta. And we 
can’t expect ’em to take to us until we’ve lived among ’em more. 
She was so popular at Bradford, but of course they were our 
own ’ands.” 

Sabine looked rather puzzled. The term was a new one to her. 

“The girls in our own mill,” Lady Gull kindly explained. 
“When she first came ’ome from Newnham she got up a girls’ 
club, for lectures and debates, you know. She tried to do the 
same here. But they’re more ambitious in the North, and Hen- 
rietta ‘managed’ them. She’s great on such a lot of subjects. I 
get very mixed at times. Suffrage and ’ealth and Sanitation. 
And ’ousing — that’s ’er latest fad. I suppose you wouldn’t be- 
lieve it now, but she got round Sir Joshua — who’s, well, careful 
of his money, or we shouldn’t be where we are at present — to 
pull down some cottages in Dead Man’s Lane (that’s the poorest 
part of the village where there’s always sickness) in order to 
build brand-new ones. And they wouldn’t ’ave it. Such a to-do! 
You’d ’ave thought that we was robbing them. The people as 
Jived in them, I mean. In the end it came to nothing and Sir 
Joshua saved his money. But it was a blow to Henrietta.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


25 


In the final phrase Sabine caught a faint hint of satisfaction. 
She smiled. Lady Gull smiled back. 

“I sometimes think, between you and me, it’s her own way she 
wants more than improvement, when all’s said! But then, of 
course, she’s disappointed.” She stared out across the gorse. 

Sabine felt curious. Would this indiscreet stout lady reveal 
further family secrets? Her next remark suggested caution. 

“Are you going to friends at Liddingcombe?” 

“No. Only to see the place. I’m quite a stranger in these 
parts. I know no one this side of the county.” 

“Then you don’t miss much,” said Lady Gull. 

It was uttered so tartly that Sabine looked up, surprised, from 
her amused scrutiny of a carriage basket in front of her filled 
with various “requisites” in leather, or with gilt tops and a 
monogram engraved upon them. In the centre was a gold card- 
case flanked by a visiting book. 

“Is that so?” Full of mischief she ventured to probe farther. 
“You’re not fortunate in your neighbours?” 

“They’re not what I’d choose” said Lady Gull. “Not friendly.” 
She lowered her voice with a warning gesture of the white kid 
gloves towards the servants. “It seems strange, after the ’appy 
days at Bradford. The ’ouse was always full then. But here 
it’s very different. I’m sure I go out of my way to welcome 
people to the Manor, and they can’t complain of anything. The 
food’s always of the best. Sir Joshua’s most ’ospitable and more 
than generous with subscriptions. But they’re stand-offish. They 
call once and I return it, and that’s all. There’s no friendly 
dropping-in. And yet — that’s what makes me wild” — her fat 
face took on a purplish hue, Sabine watched it with alarm — 
“they crosses the park at all hours and down the lane to Lidding- 
combe to call on those Vallances!” 

The name came out with an open venom. Sabine gave a little 
start. For a moment she felt guilty. Ought she to enlighten 
her hostess? On second thoughts she refrained. It would be so 
difficult to explain. There was no reason to expect that she 
would suit her prospective employer. The journey might prove 


26 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


a fruitless one, and she had definitely stated that she knew no 
one in the place. She temporized accordingly. 

“Some people whom you — dislike?” It was said to cover 
time, but it brought the deluge down upon her. 

“I should think so! If I’d known I’d have stopped Sir Joshua 
from buying the place. Of course you don’t see the point? They 
used to own Lidding St. Mary — though we bought it from the 
people as took it first off their ’ands. An extravagant lot, idle, 
shiftless! No wonder they came down in the world. And yet 
they think no end of themselves and are worshipped by the 
villagers, who throws them up in our faces — especially Henri- 
etta’s!” She paused, flushed and incoherent. 

“They live now in Liddingcombe?” Sabine succumbed to temp- 
tation. 

Lady Gull, panting, nodded. As soon as she had recovered her 
breath, she went on with her story. 

“Yes. Down by the sea — lording it over the fisher-folk. In 
a house that can’t compare with the Manor! There’s only Miss 
Vallance left, with her nephew, but you’d think that the whole 
place belonged to them. A meddling lot and that shabby! I’m 
sure I felt quite ashamed to be talking to the aunt — in her 
gardening apron and sun-bonnet, with no gloves on her ’ands — 
in the post office yesterday, when Lady Mallison drove up. And 
then if she didn’t get out and kiss Miss Vallance on both cheeks 
and take her off to tea with her, just as she was — such an 
object! Why, there’s Henrietta!” She broke off in her tirade 
and straightened the unruly hat. “Of course all this is entry- 
nous,” she added with sudden nervousness. 

“Of course.” Sabine followed her glance. 

They had left the moor in their wake and were now descending 
a steep hill, brakes grinding, the burly coachman holding the 
horses well in hand. Woods stretched away to the left and 
against a gate beneath the trees a girl leaned, watching their 
progress, a bicycle propped up beside her. 

Lady Gill fidgeted. 

“Will you — May I ask your name?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


27 


“Fane.” Sabine divined her intention. “But wouldn’t your 
daughter like my place? It’s so shady now, I can easily walk.” 

“Oh, no, m’dear.” The good-natured creature hastily checked 
the suggestion. “I’m going to take you to Lidding St. Mary. 
Henrietta’s bicycling. Besides, there’s ’eaps of room for both.” 

The carriage, obedient to a gesture from the waiting figure, 
came to a halt. 

Sabine saw a tall girl with a moody face and cold grey eyes, 
inquiringly turned in her direction. 

Lady Gull introduced the pair, fluttering through her explana- 
tions. 

“Fane,” repeated Henrietta. “Had you a sister up at Newn- 
ham?” 

“No, I’m afraid not.” 

The girl, indifferent, turned to her mother. “If I’m late, don’t 
wait dinner for me. It all depends on what train I catch.” 

Lady Gull looked inquisitive. 

“But where are you off to, Henrietta? You mustn’t ride back 
after dark across the moor. It isn’t safe. I know your father 
wouldn’t like it.” 

“Safe!” Henrietta laughed. The sound was unexpectedly 
youthful. For her whole appearance was mature. Fine lines 
marked her forehead under the severe straw hat that was wedged 
down behind on a hillock of light mouse-coloured plaits. 

It matched her short serge skirt, beneath which her thin legs 
showed like sticks in their black thread stockings. For the rest 
she wore a silk sports coat of an indefinite yellow hue that added 
to her sallowness. About her was an air of aggression as though 
she scented interference on all sides and was quick to meet it. 

“Appallingly purposeful,” thought Sabine. “That tight mouth 
knows no mercy. She will ride rough-shod over people’s feelings 
and hammer ideas into their heads. I pity the tenants at Lidding 
St. Mary.” 

Meanwhile Lady Gull was trying to influence her daughter. 

“Do let me send the dog-cart? Or James could take his bicycle 
and wait for you at the station — ” 


28 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Henrietta, frowning, checked her. She glanced up at the 
listening coachman. 

“Home,” she said very distinctly. 

The carriage, with a jerk, rolled onward. 

Lady Gull had subsided. 

“So independent!” Her voice shook. “I suppose it’s the 
fault of her education — bringing girls up like boys! I never did 
approve of it. But she gets round Sir Joshua. P’raps one day 
she’ll fall in love.” She sniffed, tearful. “I’ve always ’oped 
that marriage would be ’er portion. Though she doesn’t care for 
men — except in the lump, so to speak, for boys’ classes and so 
forth. A baby would do her a lot of good — soften ’er. There’s 
nothing like it.” 

Sabine cheerfully acquiesced. 

“I see you’re sensible, m’dear. What with this war and Henri- 
etta, I’ve about as much as I can bear. I often wish I was back 
at Bradford. It wasn’t such a fine ’ouse, but it ’ad its advantages. 
Though the back of it faced the mill. That dusty — when it 
blew—” 

Her voice had been slowly running down like the works of a 
clock in need of winding. It ended in a little sigh. Her eyes 
closed. Peacefully, without a pause, she slid into slumber. 

On went the sleek horses past a lodge and closed gates, sug- 
gesting feudal privacy, and into a winding village road with 
picturesque scattered cottages under the still eye of a church 
where a clock stared down beneath the* spire. 

Lady Gull’s mouth was open. Her double chin was propped on 
her breast above a large pearl pendant, her hat tilted over her nose. 

Sabine felt helpless. There was the lane by the rectory, that 
led to the valley and Liddingcombe. They drifted past it and on 
again. In desperation she touched the footman with the end of 
her sunshade. He turned and looked at her haughtily. 

“Will you tell the coachman to stop, please. I get out here.” 
Instinctively she waited for him to open the door. 

In his brief moment of hesitation she read the covert dis- 
respect of the servant accustomed to gentle service vis-ci-vis to 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


29 

his own class risen in authority. She gave him one glance. He 
sprang to attention. She stepped down noiselessly. 

“Will you thank her ladyship for me and say that I did not 
like to disturb her?” 

“Yes, miss.” He touched his hat. 

From the carriage came stertorous breathing. Sabine smiled, 
picking her way across the hot dusty road to the path beneath 
the yew hedge. It sheltered the still churchyard as though 
jealously guarding the dead from the thoughtless turmoil of the 
living. 

The footman solemnly mounted the box. 

“ . . . . and walks like a lady,” he told the coachman. 
“I’m glad you moved on sharp down the hill or I’d have been 
sent for ’ enrietta ” 


CHAPTER III 


HE wall fascinated Sabine. In rough-hewn stone it 



straggled up the hill away from the glare of the sea, and 


over it peeped curious faces ; gossiping clusters of Gloire de 
Dijon, sunflowers that followed the course of their god, and the 
pointed spires, alive with bells, of campanula and hollyhock. 

It reminded her of some fairy tale, an enchanted place with- 
out visible entrance; no sign of the blue door prophesied by the 
fisherman’s wife on the beach below, stretching her primitive 
washing, secured by pebbles, to bleach in the sunshine. That 
good soul had smiled at Sabine with a shrewd glance at the sound 
of the name. It would seem as though, in Liddingcombe, to ig- 
nore the home of the Vallances were to proclaim oneself thought- 
lessly as a “foreigner” — to awaken pity tempered by a slight 
mistrust. 

Sabine pondered on these signs. Before her limped an old dog, 
a spaniel, on three legs, the remaining one tucked up stiffly under- 
neath his silky breast out of the dust and heat of the road. He 
turned his head, hearing her step and waited, gazing up at her 
wistfully yet on the alert to assume the defensive if needful. 

“Good fellow!” She reassured him. There came a faint 
sidling movement as she bent nearer, patting his head. “What’s 
the matter, old man? Got a thorn in your foot?” 

His liquid eyes studied her. Then he wagged a spindly tail. 

“Let’s look.” She stretched out her hand. 

He surrendered himself trustfully, obeying his instinct which 
informed him that here was a true friend of dogs. 

She saw at once what had happened. A twig from some newly 
cut hedge had been caught up in his coat, and a briar thorn, 
trodden upon, had resisted his efforts to dislodge it. 


30 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i 

Drawing off her chamois gloves and talking to him all the 
time in a soothing voice, she removed the intruder. 

“There you are! Isn’t that better? You’re not as young 
as you used to be and it’s hot work on three legs. Just try the 
effect of four.” 

He seemed to drink in her meaning. Cautiously he experi- 
mented, then squirmed round his new friend with a spaniel’s 
gushing gratitude. 

It reminded Sabine of Lady Gull. 

“The trouble is that you overdo it.” She dusted her skirt, 
soiled by his paws. “It’s evident that you mean well, but you 
show it too openly. And that invites a snub, my dear. Friend- 
ship should be approached with respect, not given away with a 
cup of tea. But there’s one thing about you which may save 
the situation. You’re well-bred — although you giggle! Down, 
down!” She pushed him away. 

She watched him meekly lumber off. The wall continued on 
the left. To the right were fields and over the hedge a sleek 
mouse-coloured Alderney, her jaws moving from side to side, 
surveyed the stranger with the obtuse melancholy of her species. 
From far away came the sound of a threshing-machine, broken 
at times by the creak of some slow-moving cart, with unoiled 
wheels, and the sleepy “Hup!” as the driver awoke and en- 
couraged his steed. 

“Real country,” said Sabine softly, “and real sea. If only — ” 
She stopped with a quick indrawing of the breath. 

At her feet lay a rusty horse-shoe. 

In a moment she had pounced on it. Half-guiltily, she looked 
behind her. 

“Mine!” Superstition held her. “With two nails? For me, 
and Dilly. There’s a splendid augury.” 

Dusting it with a dock leaf, picked from under the banked 
hedge, she forced it into the suede bag which held her purse and 
handkerchief. 

On she went, light-footed. The spaniel had disappeared. There, 
at length, was the blue door. Ajar too. She quickened her steps. 


32 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Cautiously, hugging the wall, she peeped through the narrow 
opening. 

A smooth lawn divided her from the house which had a wide 
veranda and was wreathed in creepers that ventured up to the 
uneven sloping roof, above which were twisted chimneys, gro- 
tesque, like a party of hobgoblins. On either side of the wide 
porch were placed tubs of fuchsias, weighed down by their royal 
tassels of purple and red, and a great white cup splashed the 
green above the door, filling the air with the subtle perfume of 
magnolias. But what riveted her attention was the human 
figure on the scene. 

A long herbaceous border stretched under the lee of the wall, 
the home of the peering flowers, and here, a little old lady, in a 
faded brown overall, a sun-bonnet framing her wrinkled face, was 
slaying weeds in her own fashion. Sabine watched her, deeply 
intrigued. With a spud she would dig up the offender; then, from 
the basket on her arm, produce what looked like wooden scissors 
spring these out to a vast length, seize the weed and neatly trans- 
fer it to the collection that she carried. 

She was only a few paces away. So near that the girl in the 
doorway could note how the blue of the cotton bonnet matched 
the intent, unsmiling eyes. 

Suddenly a breathless “Oh!” escaped the lips of the busy 
figure. She pounced down on a fat slug and transferred it trium- 
phantly to a bowl of salt water that stood conveniently behind 
her. 

Sabine, in her growing amusement, forgot caution. The blue 
door moved under the pressure of her shoulder with an ominous 
creak. She was detected. 

The little old lady stared at her for a long moment. Then she 
spoke. 

“They have to be killed.” Her voice was severe, but the blue 
eyes seemed a trifle anxious. 

“Of course.” Sabine, immensely relieved, welcomed the chance 
of conversation. “They do such endless harm to plants. I was 
only admiring the clever way you pick up everything.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


33 


“With my 'crazy- tongs’?” The other smiled. “They’re very 
handy. My nephew made them. Stooping isn’t good for me, and 
I’m so fond of gardening. But I can manage quite well like this.” 
She extended the implement in question and seized a dislodged 
dandelion. “There!” She dropped it into her basket. 

“It’s delightful.” Sabine screwed up her courage. “I wonder — 
Are you Miss Vallance?” 

“Yes.” On the wrinkled face was a look of ingenuous surprise. 
It seemed to be an unusual question. “Do you want to see me? 
Won’t you come in?” 

Sabine crossed the low step. 

“Thank you. If you could spare me a few minutes I should 
be glad. I’ve called about an advertisement which appeared in 
the Times yesterday.” 

“For a housekeeper?” Miss Vallance nodded, suddenly brisk 
and interested. “It’s cooler under the veranda.” 

She led the way to where two chairs flanked a little wicker table 
in the shadow of the creepers. 

Sabine, obedient to a sign from her companion, seated herself. 
The chair slid backward. She gave a start. 

“I ought to have warned you,” said Miss Vallance. “Mark 
put rollers on to that one to make it easy for me to move. I’m 
not allowed to lift things — it’s a great handicap. He’s so clever 
in inventing trifles that add to my comfort. Unusually thoughtful 
for a man. I tell him he ought to have been a woman!” Her 
smile was tender beneath its humour. 

Into Sabine’s mind there flashed an imaginative picture of the 
second inmate of the house: a little man, inclined to fuss, tied to 
his aunt’s apron strings, a gentle domesticated creature, always 
busied with small matters. She murmured something vague and 
pleasant. 

Miss Vallance leaned back and folded her thin, well-shaped 
hands on the pocket of her overall from which a wisp of raffia 
protruded. 

“So you know of a housekeeper,” she suggested. “Perhaps she 
has lived with you?” Her eyes ran over the girl’s dress, simple 


34 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


but in the latest fashion, and lingered on the grey su&de shoes and 
high-arched slender feet. 

Sabine explained hurriedly. 

“Oh, no. I came for myself.” 

Miss Vallance stared at her. 

“For yourself?” 

“Yes. I think that I could undertake all that you seem to 
require. I’ve managed a number of houses and servants, both 
abroad and in England. I can drive, of course, and I write a good 
hand. It’s only the dairy — ” She broke off. It was more diffi- 
cult than she had dreamed. 

“But you’re far too young,” said Miss Vallance slowly. “Be- 
sides — ” There came an eloquent pause. 

“You didn’t state any age?” 

“I know. That was Mark’s fault. He said if we put ‘about 
forty’ we should have a swarm of decrepit people who hoped to 
end their days in comfort. He’s very obstinate sometimes.” 
She gave a little helpless gesture, but a twinkle lay in her blue 
eyes. 

Sabine laughed, the strain relaxed. 

“He was quite right. I remember once, when we wanted a 
steward on the yacht, we had the same experience. You never 
saw such people! One old man might have posed for Michael 
Angelo’s Moses ” Suddenly the conviction of all this heedless 
speech revealed struck her. She went on nervously, “But I don’t 
think that youth matters. It’s really experience that counts and 
I’ve seen a great deal of life.” 

“I imagine so,” said the little old lady. 

Here she had a further surprise. 

Sabine leaned across the table, her face earnest, the beautiful 
mouth curved with a suggestion of pride. 

“If you think that I’m frivolous,” she said, “you’re much 
mistaken. I’ve certainly lived in the midst of gaiety, but I don’t 
need it. I’ve always felt that it lacked something — something 
real. I only found out what it was when I came back to Eng- 
land and settled in a quiet village miles away from everywhere. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


35 


I love the country and country ways — that’s my true environ- 
ment — and I’m not at all afraid of work. I was happier in that 
old house, where we hardly saw a soul, than in any whirl of social 
pleasure.” 

“Then why — ?” Miss Vallance peered at her, taken aback by 
the girl’s candour. 

Sabine guessed the rest of the question. 

“Why did I leave it? My father died.” She looked away over 
the sea, visible from the higher ground, where the land-locked 
bay was deeply blue and a wooded spur lay like some feather, 
dropped from the wing of a passing eagle which had floated down 
with the river. The sense of its peacefulness filled her heart. 
She went on composedly, “I have now to earn my own living. I 
think that I am competent to fill the post advertised. I’ve been 
housekeeper to my father since the days of short frocks. And 
I’ve made a success of it.” 

It was said with a quiet dignity that impressed the listening 
woman. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Her voice was kind. “But it’s quite a 
different thing, my dear, to be mistress in your own house than 
to fall in with the rules of another. I’m old-fashioned. I have 
my ways.” She paused with an uncertain smile. 

Into the depths of the girl’s clear gaze there stole a hint of 
youthful humour. 

“I think that I should like your ways. You’re thorough, and 
that’s so consoling! You see, I watched you catch that slug.” 

Miss Vallance tried to steady her face. Then she gave way 
to a shadowy laugh, the delicate laughter of the old. “An original 
retainer,” she thought. Yet the charm of Fane’s daughter drew 
her. Sabine followed up her advantage: 

“I quite expect to be taught. If only you’d teach me garden- 
ing! I loved this place from the first glance — the way the 
house is tucked away inside that long mysterious wall. I 
christened it The Enchanted Garden’.” She saw that her listener 
looked pleased. 

She went on easily, describing that part of her old life which 


36 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


was concerned with domestic duties. Now and again Miss Vai- 
lance would interpose with a shrewd question, or a comment be- 
traying interest, but shadowed by her original doubt. Economy 
now? It seemed to her that the Fanes had spent lavishly. At 
Liddingcombe it would be a totally different establishment. 

Sabine quickly reassured her. The sum allowed for house- 
keeping during the last year of his life proved that Fane had 
expected full value for his money. He would speculate without 
scruple and entertain royally but, even in their most riotous days, 
in private matters he had been careful and, since their advent in 
England, the girl herself had taken pride in keeping down house 
expenses, aware of heavy doctors’ bills and the fact that her 
father had retired. Miss Vallance could find no fault here and at 
length there came an uncertain pause. 

Sabine leaned across the table, studying her companion’s face, 
eagerly searching for confirmation of her awakened hopes. 

“It’s so difficult to recommend one’s own person, isn’t it?” 
Her smile was humourous yet anxious. “But I’m sure you’d find 
me capable. Won’t you give me a month’s trial?” 

The little old lady hesitated. Then she caught at a fresh excuse. 

“I should like to consult Mark first. If only you were not so 
young! That’s the real stumbling-block. I had looked for 
some one middle-aged. It doesn’t matter so much now — but 
afterwards.” What did she mean? Sabine watched her, sur- 
prised. “It’s hard — yes, very hard.” She was obviously talking 
to herself. “This dreadful war, I suppose? And brought up in 
luxury. But would it do? I must be wise.” She seemed to 
awake with a start to the knowledge of her audience. “I’m 
sorry. You’re very brave, my dear, and you must have faith. I 
respect that. And hope — the blessed gift of youth.” A wistful 
light came into the eyes, so candidly blue, that were turned to 
the girl’s. She rose to her feet. “But I’ll speak to Mark. Will 
you excuse me for a moment?” 

Sabine watched her pass through the porch, pause to nip off a 
dead fuchsia with an absent glance, and disappear. She did not 
guess that the old lady was adding in her own mind: 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


37 


“An ‘Enchanted Garden’! That touched me. But we want 
no Fairy Princess to wake us. I must think of Mark. I mustn’t 
be led through an impulse of charity. Poor child! She doesn’t 
know what’s before her. Oh, this war — this wicked war!” 

Silence fell on the sloping lawn, save for the drowsy hum of 
insects. Bees blundered past the veranda, smeared by the sticky 
gold of pollen, drunk with Summer’s ecstasy. From far away 
came the sleepy song of the threshing machine. It roused in 
Sabine vague dreams. She saw Dilly lodged in some cottage near 
the beach, ready to spoil or scold her darling; saw, too, stolen 
hours swimming in the sunlit sea, long tramps through the green 
lanes, drives — “I’m sure there’s a grey pony” — and, rousing 
her sense of humour, herself as the “lady housekeeper,” capable 
and conscientious, learning to make peerless butter from the 
cream of the mouse-coloured Alderney. Dreams — Then, with a 
faint reaction, that unknown second figure, Mark. 

Would he prove the stumbling-block? 

“I don’t appeal to that type of creature,” she told herself. “I 
can’t forgive a lack of virility. I suppose I’m spoilt by memories 
of my father. He was such a many 

She was roused from her speculations by the creak of the blue 
door. She look up, interested. A fisherman stood on the 
threshold, tall and fair, finely proportioned. His jersey was open 
at the throat which was tanned to the colour of a nut. In his 
hand he carried the spoils of the sea, fish strung by a line through 
their gills, gleaming like silver in the sunshine. Scales and the 
rime of salt water still clung to his shabby trousers. On the 
back of his head was a shapeless hat, framing a lean powerful 
face, like a halo basely filched from a saint. 

“With an offering from the villagers,” Sabine thought as he 
marched up the path, the codlings swinging by his side. 

He gave her a sidelong glance and paused. At that moment 
Miss Vallance appeared on the porch. “Why, there you are! 
I thought you’d returned. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” 
She laid a hand on the fisherman’s sleeve. “I want you for a 
minute, Mark. Rub your shoes — there’s a good boy!” 


38 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Docile, he followed her into the house. 

Sabine drew a deep breath. 

So this was the nephew, “meant for a woman!” She checked 
a wild desire to laugh. They might hear her, she must be cau- 
tious. Much depended upon Mark. 

“He doesn’t look pliable,” she decided. “That mouth — and 
the set of his chin. Now, what’s my correct attitude? Humility? 
Would that flatter him? He doesn’t rule in his own house. Miss 
Vallance is the moving spirit, for all her frailty and age. ‘Rub 
your shoes’! And he did it! Shoes that a tramp would throw in 
a ditch. They really are a quaint couple. I can understand 
Lady Gull and her ‘so different from Bradford.’ I should rather 
like to see a battle between Mark and Henrietta.” 

A maid came out on the veranda with a tea-cloth in her hand 
and spread it over the table deftly, a sidelong glance bestowed on 
the stranger. She wore an old-fashioned cap with starched frills 
that accentuated the colour on her healthy face. 

Sabine watched her arrange the tray with its fine old lustre 
cups, deep-bowled and slightly crooked, and the silver teapot, 
worn thin, that had seen the same generations as the frail, rat- 
tailed tea-spoons. Here was no crest or monogram, only the 
subtle hall-mark of age. 

She lighted the lamp beneath the kettle and paused to say 
doubtfully: 

“I think that will be quite safe, miss. There’s no wind to 
blow the flame.” 

“I’ll watch it,” Sabine reassured her. 

The maid thanked her and departed. 

In the silence that followed, Sabine caught the sound of voices 
overhead. They drifted out through some open window. 

“If you think she’s too young, that ends it. But you need 
somebody energetic. Otherwise you’d be driven crazy and do 
all the work yourself. 1 know you!” There followed a man’s 
laugh. “As to her being pretty, I’ve no particular objection, 
provided that I’m not expected to make violent love to her.” 

Sabine quivered with indignation. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


39 


“Mark!” Miss Vallance sounded vexed. 

“Well, look here, old lady, I’m off. I promised Rogers I’d 
run down and see him about five. Just smuggle me out a cup of 
tea. Feed the girl and give her her fare and I’ll tell Steve to 
put in the pony. She’ll be able to catch the six-five.” A pause. 
“Why, I believe you want her? You’ve been foxing! I know 
your game. You’d like to put the blame on me, and I flatly 
refuse to be drawn in. If you fancy her, give her a month’s trial. 
It won’t hurt anybody. It might be an experience before the 
real article.” A chuckle. “You’d find out how much they’d 
stand!” 

Silence. Then Miss Vallance spoke. 

“I was counting on your help, Mark.” It was said with a 
certain tinge of sadness. 

“I’m a brute. Forgive me. I’d — forgotten.” There was real 
repentance in his voice. 

“My dear boy — you are to forget. I didn’t mean to remind 
you. But so much depends upon it. I don’t want to make a 
mistake. I’ll confess that this girl attracted me. She’s a lady — 
I hadn’t hoped for that. At least I expected some one Gullish!” 
Sabine, still angry, had to smile. “It makes things so much 
easier. She has seen trouble too. She strikes me as being both 
brave and honest, and it’s not our way to refuse help.” 

“No.” Mark sounded grim. “We can help every one but 
ourselves. That ought to be the family motto.” 

Sabine squirmed in her chair. To be thought an object for 
charity? This had not entered into her scheme. “I shall not 
accept it,” she told herself. Then reason came to her rescue. 
If she made herself indispensable, there would be a turning of 
the tables. She was not afraid of the work before her. She made 
up her mind in that moment. 

Steps warned her of the approach of the conspirators. Miss 
Vallance appeared, Mark behind her. 

“My nephew.” She introduced him, and settled herself before 
the tea-tray. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss — I 
don’t believe you told me your name.” 


40 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Fane — Sabine Fane,” said the girl, “My godmother was 
French. I was called Sabine after her.” 

Miss Vallance nodded, carefully “mothering” the cups. This 
duty over she looked up, practical and alert. 

“I should like to explain a few things. I want some one to 
take my place and relieve me from all household duties — to 
give orders, see to the dairy, and replace servants, if required. 
It is not a very heavy task but I want it done in my own way. 
At first under my daily guidance. Perhaps you might not care 
for that?” 

“It is what I should prefer,” said Sabine. “I think I should 
soon learn your rules.” She felt Mark’s eyes fixed on her from 
where he leaned against the veranda and divined the man’s 
hidden amusement. “I should be pleased to learn — from you.” 
There was the faintest pause before the concluding words. She 
went on rather quickly, remembering a point she had overlooked, 
“I must tell you I understand cooking. I can cook, myself.” 
Behind the speech lay the desire to impress Mark with a sense of 
her capability. She had guessed his thought: “This smart young 
lady!” Her voice was cool as she continued, “I found when I 
first managed a house — at the age of sixteen — that in con- 
trolling servants it was the greatest help to know what one re- 
quired of them. Besides this, in times of illness, one is never at 
their mercy. I know many foreign dishes too, and can teach a 
servant how to prepare them.” 

Miss Vallance looked surprised. 

“Indeed? A very useful knowledge. But we live very quietly 
here. My nephew prefers simple food.” 

For the first time Sabine glanced directly at the listening man. 
Her eyes ran over his rough clothes and lingered on the shabby 
shoes. Mark stirred, suddenly restless. 

“I’m accustomed to men,” she replied coolly, after her acute 
survey. “When they say they like ‘simple food’ they generally 
want it to be of the best.” 

Into Miss Vallance’s blue eyes came a gleam of mischief. 

“You’re not far wrong.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


4i 


Mark frowned. Deliberately he threw himself into the fray, 
with the suggestion of bringing the pair of womenfolk back to 
business. 

“My aunt is not very strong,” he explained. “The principal 
thing is to save her from all — all — ” He stuck for want of the 
right expression. 

“Worry,” suggested Sabine smoothly. 

“Exactly.” His voice rasped. “It needs some one capable and 
— er, quick.” Not usually nervous he was disconcerted by the 
effect this strange girl had on him. He took an immediate dislike 
to her. 

Sabine assented, her face grave, and waited — obviously — for 
more. She saw him gulp in his throat. Nothing could have been 
more respectful and patient than her attitude, hands folded in 
her lap. 

“Which is why,” said Mark explosively, “I prefer the idea of a 
month's trial.” 

“Quite so,” Sabine agreed. “I mightn't be — er — quick 
enough. But there's one thing I haven't gathered. What are 
the ‘secretarial duties'?” 

“Oh, that's for my nephew,” said Miss Vallance. 

Sabine's eyebrows went up. 

“You write?” There was faint surprise in her voice. 

“It's a small matter.” He fidgeted. “It was really an after- 
thought when we framed the advertisement. On account of the 
long winter days. It's not important in the least, merely oc- 
casional copying work. If you’ve any objection we can waive it.” 

Sabine saw her chance at last. She resented his sharp authori- 
tative manner. “On the contrary” — she studied his face — “it 
sounds as if it might be amusing.” 

Miss Vallance missed the point and beamed. 

“He writes so cleverly. Personally, I love his work.” 

Mark, helpless, glared at her. 

“Well,” said Miss Vallance, “I really think — ” She hesitated 
and at this crisis there came a sudden interruption. A spaniel, 
hot and out of breath, bore down on the veranda. 


42 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Vox!” His mistress tried to catch him by the collar as he 
lumbered past her. “Now, Vox, do be good!” She watched him 
apprehensively, adding to the visitor, “I hope you’re not afraid 
of dogs? He’s sometimes — ” 

Sabine smiled. 

“No. I’m very fond of them.” 

Mark had moved a pace nearer. He, too, watched the dog. 
It sniffed for a moment round Sabine’s skirt uncertainly, recog- 
nized her and, thrusting up its black muzzle, laid it genially on 
her knee. 

“Well!” Miss Vallance stared at the pair, then, amazed, at 
her nephew. “Isn’t that strange?” There was awe in her voice. 
She gave a sigh of pleased relief. 

“Very.” The word was bitten out. For Mark was saying to 
himself. “That’s done it. Damn the dog!” 


CHAPTER IV 


S ABINE closed her empty trunk, rose from her knees and 
looked round with a growing satisfaction. 

The presence of familiar objects, a row of her favourite 
books, the photograph of her father and a little tortoise-shell 
travelling clock, seemed to bring an air of home into the low, 
somewhat bare sitting-room, with its well-worn carpet and faded 
chintzes. 

The windows looked out over the back, on to out-houses and 
the kitchen garden. Beyond this, the ground sloped sharply 
uphill and, on the crest, was a grove of hazels through which a 
path led to the edge of the distant sea, invisible from this angle. 
But from her bedroom, up the two steps from where she stood, 
at the end of the wing, she could catch a glimpse of the smooth 
rollers and the creamy line as they broke on the beach, above 
which, irregular, rose the last clump of cottages. The Vallances’ 
house seemed to be the outpost of the village. 

All this Sabine had taken in on her arrival that afternoon, still 
a little sad from her parting with Dillon who had gone to re- 
lations for the month that was to decide so much for her darling. 
Rebellious to the bitter end, she nourished in her faithful heart 
the hope that it might “prove a lesson,” this departure from all 
precedent. A Fane “in service?” Ridiculous! 

Unknown to the girl, Dillon had smuggled into Sabine’s modest 
trunk an evening dress barely worn and destined for half-mourn- 
ing; a delicate amethyst-coloured affair with luxury in every fold, 
the creation of a Paris house. It might revive memories. A tear 
had fallen on to the chiffon and Dilly, scolding, had turned to 
her iron. 


43 


44 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine smiled tenderly when the tissue paper disclosed this 
relic of her past magnificence, aware of the old servant's inten- 
tion. It was a bribe to her youth. She had brought only her 
simplest clothes, the practical side of her character outweighing 
her imagination. She was here to work, not to play. And since 
success — the success she craved — depended upon her fulfilling 
very ordinary duties she must look the part and nothing more. 
She had sent to the bank her dressing-case with its elaborate 
fittings — aware of the surprised comments they might arouse 
among the servants — reserving only the tortoise-shell clock. 
Miss Vallance would understand, but below stairs they would 
have less mercy. 

She glanced now at her father's portrait, at the keen face so 
full of life, the hair silvered at the temples and the eyes that few 
women could resist, so defiantly young despite the lines that 
threatened the half-smiling mouth. He seemed amused at the 
sight of his daughter in her present strange surroundings, as 
though he entered into the joke with the zest of his old specula- 
tions. 

“You'll back me, won’t you, dad?” Sabine whispered. It 
seemed to her, in the dim light that her father nodded. He was 
more comforting than Dillon. 

She moved across to the open window and leaned out. It was 
dark, though the night held the charm of starlight, deceptively 
luminous in the absence of the moon. The cool air drifted in 
with its mixed odours; the fresh sting of wet seaweed that pierced 
the sweeter fragrance of stocks and tobacco plants arising from 
the garden beneath. 

A bunch of the former, purple and red, with some tender sprigs 
of mignonette stood in a bowl on the table that held her discarded 
supper tray. The kindly thought had touched the girl. She 
could picture Miss Vallance arranging them with her delicate 
blue-veined hands in this piece of ancient china, beautiful in 
itself with its balanced oriental pattern. Everything in the quiet 
house, despite its obvious shabbiness, testified to a refinement in 
taste that had become a habit and to a sombre, proud old age 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


45 

that appealed to Sabine peculiarly after her life mainly spent in 
garish hotels and furnished villas. 

The place was a “home” in its truest sense, the very chairs 
linked to their owners by constant use and holding the same 
secrets and reservations, the same wistful memories and subtle 
defiance of laws of change. 

Around this, Sabine's thoughts revolved happily, with a sense 
of adventure, of exploring a country hitherto glimpsed through 
the medium of books. The low, white house near Bideford had 
been a step in the right direction; that English existence for 
which she felt so strong a leaning. But, even there, the old sense 
of impermanence, of a halt in the course of a wandering life, had 
denied to her the full vision. At Liddingcombe, through the 
accident of her changed fortunes, she had stepped, not forward 
into a new world rendered more feverish and uncertain by the very 
fact of war, but backward, deliberately, into the past, the true 
picture of her dreams. It seemed well-nigh impossible in this 
still and peaceful house to conceive of whole nations engaged in 
battle or of any factor which could upset customs so rooted in 
tradition. 

Yet, even here, she supposed, youth was taking up the burden 
of individual sacrifice, conscious of the call to arms; the lands- 
men to the colours, the fisherfolk to patrol the seas. 

The thought, unbidden, flashed across her that the master of 
the house was indubitably one of those whom England had a 
right to claim. She judged him to be close on thirty, strong, 
active and unmarried. Why had he not volunteered? 

She frowned as she knelt on the window-seat, the breeze stirring 
her ruffled hair. The problem increased her dislike of Mark. She 
divined in him the typical improvident autocrat, proud of his 
birth and contemptuous of the opinions of those around him, even 
in the choice of his dress; poor, yet lacking the energy to work 
and retrieve his broken fortunes, tyrannical but subservient to 
the aunt who supported him. An idler, in fact — her lips curled. 
Lady Gull had been right there. 

Miss Vallance she could admire, was prepared to like whole- 


46 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


heartedly, but Mark? She shrugged her fine shoulders and 
laughed outright at the memory of those words which had floated 
out to her, anent her youth, from the upper windows. She would 
show him, without a mistake, that she did not require his admira- 
tion. 

But how absurd to let it rankle! She gave herself a little 
shake. 

“I don’t really. It’s not that. It’s his manner that I can’t 
stand, his insufferable air of patronage and his mockery. He 
hasn’t the grace to abdicate but sees himself still heir to the 
kingdom — having sold his rights for a mess of pottage!” 

She stared out into the night, calmed by her little outburst. 
How still it was! She could hear a faint thud from the stables 
as the grey pony moved in his stall. “Pepper” — she recalled 
the name, elicited from the little groom who had driven her from 
the station. He had shown himself impervious to the lure of 
conversation save on this single point. It was obvious that the 
dignity of his sudden rise from stable-boy — due to the fact that 
his superior had lately joined the forces — weighed heavily upon 
him. Groom to the Vallances. He would have sneered at a 
royal equerry! Sabine, inwardly amused, had watched his small 
figure stiffen when they turned into the village out of the winding 
road by the river, his whip cocked at the right angle, Pepper 
encouraged to “trot out.” Unluckily the dash of their progress 
had been marred by an interruption. As they passed the Hunted 
Stag y a small inn that faced the beach, a woman had run out 
breathlessly, hailing the driver, with a message. 

“Will yu tell Mr. Mark as sune as yu’m home that Sam’s been 
tuk’ bad again. Don’t yu go forgettin’, Steve!” 

The youth had nodded haughtily and whipped up the grey 
pony. 

The woman’s troubled eyes had turned for a brief moment to 
the stranger. She had dropped a curtsy, to Sabine’s delight — a 
new experience for her. It would soon be all over the village 
that the Vallances had a visitor (the trunk testified to this) and 
that Steve had fetched her from the station — with the corollary 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


47 


that that boy was getting “tu big for his buits!” This from the 
gardener’s wife whose own son had coveted the post left vacant 
by the soldier. Sabine divined but little of this, though she now 
recalled the woman’s “dip.” It was due, she knew, to the livery of 
the Vallances rather than to her own appearance. 

“I don’t suppose they’d carry it so far as to include me if 
they knew I was the housekeeper! I wonder how I shall stand 
with them? It’s a funny sort of position.” 

She puzzled over it for a moment, her chin cupped in her 
hands, drinking in the scented air. There were owls at work in 
the hazel grove. She could hear their low mournful note and 
once the shrill startled cry of a smaller bird alive to danger. 

The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten. Bedtime. She would 
have to be up early in the morning, the family breakfast at half- 
past eight. So, closing the windows regretfully, she lit a candle 
and made her way along the passage to the bath-room which 
stood in the main block opposite Miss Vallance’s room. As an 
after-thought she turned back, picked up her supper-tray and 
placed it on the housemaid’s shelf at the head of the back stairs. 

“They shall see that I’m independent. If they think that I’m 
a fine lady I shall get no work done.” She had not missed the 
housemaid’s manner, nor the glance she had cast at the littered 
room in the process of unpacking. It said as plainly as it could, 
“Another person to wait upon!” The sequel had been that no 
hot water had been vouchsafed to Sabine that evening. 

Reaching the bath-room noiselessly, she filled a can and was 
preparing to steal back unobserved when she heard the sound of 
solid footsteps steadily mounting the front stairs. She did not 
want to meet Mark and drew back behind the door. But she 
peeped out through the crack to make sure of his departure. An 
oil lamp hung by a chain from the ceiling on the square landing 
and cast a narrow circle of light. As he came underneath she 
could see his face. It startled her. He looked so young, so su- 
perbly alive and yet so sad. Gone was his arrogant expression 
with the mockery in his blue eyes. There remained an utter hope- 
lessness, the burden of some haunting care. 


48 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Instead of turning to the right he halted outside his aunt’s 
door and tapped gently with his knuckles. 

“It’s Mark.” His voice was low yet distinct. “Are you ready, 
old lady? Or is it too early to tuck you up?” 

“One minute!” — Sabine caught the reply — “I’m coming, 
dear. Don’t go!” Then the sound of the key being turned and 
the door was opened. On the threshold, in a faded, blue dressing- 
gown, her silvery hair drawn back from her face and gathered 
into a cotton net, Miss Vallance stood, fragile and sweet, the 
picture of age and welcoming love. 

Mark put his arm around her. 

“I’m a bit early, but Dinah needs me. I promised them I’d 
go back. They can’t manage Sam alone. Poor old chap! He’s 
bad this time. If only he’d keep off the drink, but it’s difficult in 
his position. I’ve been expecting something like this ever since 
the boy joined up.” 

“Ah!” Miss Vallance moved back. The light had died out of 
her face. “A case of sin begetting sin.” She spoke with an 
almost vindictive harshness. 

Sabine wondered at the change, and at what lay behind the 
speech. She could hear Mark soothing her. 

“You’re not to worry. He’ll be all right. I wouldn’t have 
told you to-night, but I mayn’t be home till after breakfast and 
so — ” 

The door closed behind him, cutting off the conversation. 

Wide-eyed, Sabine sped down the passage to her room. This 
was the second time, she thought, that she had unwittingly been 
placed in the awkward position of eavesdropper. She drew a 
deep breath of relief when she found herself in her own quarters, 
the friendly lamp on the table, her father’s face illumined by it. 
For she sensed some mystery in the house. What was the link 
that bound this man in the full tide of his youthful strength to 
that frail but, at times, severe old lady? And why did he wear 
that hopeless look? 

“Anyhow, he’s good to her,” she decided rather grudgingly, 
“and he seems to ‘lord it’ in the village to some purpose when 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


49 

there’s trouble.” She smiled as she let down her hair and began 
to brush it vigorously. “But he won’t find he can master me.” 

Little she guessed what lay before her. 

For the next fortnight Sabine found no leisure for imagination. 
Miss Vallance put her on her mettle. Kind but thorough to a 
degree that dwarfed all Sabine’s own ideas, she opened up to the 
young girl secrets of thrift unknown to her; strange old family 
recipes for making polishes and pickles, at half the price that 
the grocer charged, for curing tongues and bottling fruits and 
other lore of the country. Even liniments and ointments came 
into the category. 

Sabine blushed, remembering her little boast of “foreign dishes.” 
It seemed that she did not even know the rudiments of English 
knowledge! But she took quickly to the dairy and loved it, so 
spotless and so cool, with its great pans where the cream gathered 
to be scalded or turned into golden butter. Here were modern 
innovations, saving labour, at which Miss Vallance was inclined 
to sniff a little. Mark, it seemed, had insisted upon them. 

The whole house moved by rules. There were days for stores 
and days for linen and a system of lists that worried Sabine, 
written memos for the tradesmen and even a daily one for the 
gardener with the vegetables that the cook required. But on one 
point the girl scored. She won the confidence of the servants, 
always suspicious of a class that holds a midway position be- 
tween employer and employed. Her very mistakes made them 
generous. For she was liable to correction like themselves, and 
although Miss Vallance was both loved and respected she was also 
undoubtedly feared. That layer of hardness underlying her 
gracious manner which Sabine had glimpsed and a certain touch 
of tyranny, the result of centuries of ruling, accepted by the 
villagers as lawful to one of “the family,” forebade direct sym- 
pathy. It drew them unconsciously to Sabine. For the girl, 
though just, was merciful. 

“Best go to Miss Fane first. She’ll explain to the old lady , 551 
became a phrase in constant use. They welcomed what they had 
hitherto grudged, a capable intermediary. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


50 

The fact smoothed her thorny path. Not that she troubled 
overmuch. She had her father’s ardent spirit, the same sort of 
careless courage that rose at the sight of an obstacle, and was 
undaunted by a fall. And here she had a goal in sight rendered, 
as the days passed on, more desirable by the fact that Mark, a 
silent, background figure watched, with his faintly mocking 
smile. 

She had never forgotten his cynical speech: “You’ll find out 
how much they’ll stand!” She would have died at her post 
sooner than admit defeat. 

In the end she had her reward. It came in an unexpected 
manner. Miss Vallance had been flagging. It was obvious that 
she was not strong, despite her energetic spirit, and the duties of 
instruction had tried her more than the pupil. On this particular 
afternoon for the first time she had given in, admitting that she 
had a headache and was going to lie down until after tea. 

One of the rules of the house was to admit visitors at any hour 
if the owners were in. The white lie of “not at home” was anath- 
ema to the little old lady. She had, too, a rooted objection to 
any reference to her health. This Sabine had remarked. It made 
the chance of seclusion always a doubtful one. People came up 
from the village on the barest pretence for aid or advice and — • 
this irritated Sabine — stayed to tea in the kitchen if not to a 
more solid meal. What was the use of economy on the part of 
the Vallances if they kept open house in this fashion? She dis- 
liked their being imposed upon and judged it shrewdly to be the 
case. She went so far as to hint at it and found herself, slightly 
bruised, recoiling from the wall of Tradition. 

It was, it seemed, an inherited custom, a survival of the 
“bread and salt” that bound a man to loyal service in the old 
feudal days; still more than that, an integral part of the family 
pride. It should not be said that any just claimant went empty- 
handed from the door. 

Sabine, intrigued but more modern, privately looked on it as 
folly. She scored it up against Mark and his lazy autocracy. 

Her devout prayer at the moment, therefore, was for no in- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


5i 

terruption with the legend of an ailing child, or financial mis- 
fortunes laid to the score of “war-time.” But on this inoppor- 
tune afternoon Henrietta chose to call. 

“On a matter of business,” she explained and was shown into 
the drawing-room. 

Sabine met the parlourmaid on her way to rouse Miss Vallance. 

“What a pity! She’s looking worn-out. Couldn’t I see Miss 
Gull instead?” 

“I should think so, miss. But if I was you I shouldn’t mention 
Miss Vallance being poorly. She mightn’t like it to get about.” 
The maid had added the warning shrewdly. Sabine nodded. 

“I understand. You needn’t wait. I’ll speak to Miss Gull 
and, if its unavoidable, I’ll go myself to fetch Miss Vallance.” 
She ran quickly downstairs. 

Henrietta was sitting squarely on a straight-backed chair near 
the window. She looked aggressive and plainer than ever. The 
afternoon was hot and sultry. Bicycling through the dust had 
given her a dull flush that did not improve her sallow complexion. 
She still wore the lemon sport’s coat, but had added tan shoes 
and stockings to enhance its colour value. 

She looked up as Sabine entered, and stared, for once taken 
aback, full of a startled recognition. 

“You?” 

“Yes.” Sabine explained. “I am housekeeper now to Miss 
Vallance.” She did not attempt to shake hands but stood, a slim, 
dignified figure, gazing down at the other girl. “Could you give 
me any message? Miss Vallance is engaged.” 

“But the maid said she was in?” Henrietta leaned on the 
word. 

“In the house,” corrected Sabine. “Since it is a business affair, 
perhaps I could be of use?” 

Henrietta showed her claws. 

“My business is not with servants. It’s a private matter and 
important.” 

Sabine, unmoved, made another suggestion. 

“Would you care to see Mr. Vallance?” 


52 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“No.” Henrietta scowled. “Ill wait.” It was an ultimatum, 

Sabine glanced at the clock. The hands pointed to half past 
three. 

“Very well.” She went out. 

She stood for a moment near the porch, battling with a sudden 
temptation. She knew that Mark avoided Miss Gull on every 
possible occasion. Still, he was fond of his aunt. He should 
share the rough as well as the smooth. She decided to lay the 
case before him. 

She moved on down the passage that led to the north wing and 
the study that was sheltering him. She tapped. A voice said, 
“Come in.” 

She turned the handle and stood on the threshold. It was her 
first glimpse of his sanctum, a long room lined with books and 
but partly furnished, the further end carpetless with scrubbed 
boards, a carpenter’s bench, and a lathe near a cupboard that 
bulged with fishing-tackle. Mark, in his shirt sleeves, was busy 
planing a strip of wood destined to mend a gate. He turned his 
head and his brows went up at the unexpected apparition. 

“Yes?” His manner was abrupt. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” said Sabine, “but I don’t know 
how to act. Miss Vallance is not at all well — ” She stopped, 
surprised by the spasm of fear that crossed his face. He sprang 
up and strode towards her. 

“I’ll come.” 

She checked him. 

“It’s nothing serious — only a headache — she’s lying down. 
That isn’t the point at all.” The colour that had ebbed from his 
face returned and he looked relieved. She went on steadily. 
“Miss Gull has called and she insists on seeing Miss Vallance. 
It seems a pity that she should be disturbed just now. I did not 
say that she was ill, only engaged, because — ” She paused. 

Mark nodded. 

“Quite right.” His eyes studied the girl before him gravely 
with a new expression. 

“But I couldn’t dislodge her,” Sabine confessed. Her listener 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 




S3 


gave a snort of impatience. “I suppose I must go and wake your 
aunt?” 

“No.” He looked round for his coat and unwillingly struggled 
into it. “You were quite right to come to me. HI tackle the 
young woman myself.” He hesitated. “Was she — civil?” 

Sabine lightly shrugged her shoulders. 

“She was true to type. That doesn’t matter.” She saw Mark’s 
mouth tighten. 

“I’m sorry.” He looked her full in the face. “If you have 
any cause for complaint, on that score — from anyone — I hope 
you will inform me at once.” 

It was so unexpected that Sabine coloured. 

“Oh, but I haven’t,” she said quickly. “I’m really very happy 
here.” She stepped back into the passage but there a new 
thought struck her. “I forgot to say that I asked Miss Gull if 
she would like to see you, and — ” 

He broke in: 

“She said ‘No’?” 

His old mocking smile had returned with the arrogant tilt of 
his head. Sabine drew in her horns. 

“She preferred to see Miss Vallance.” Once more the “re- 
spectful housekeeper,” she spoke without the ghost of a smile. 

Mark gave her a sharp glance. 

“In diplomatic language — yes. Thank you, Miss Fane.” 

It was a dismissal. 

Sabine retreated into the store-room, conveniently near. She 
heard him pass and made a grimace through the closed door. 

“I hope Henrietta will be rude! I think she’s in the mood 
for it.” Her thoughts reverted to Mark’s speech with its under- 
current of chivalry which had taken her by surprise. “It’s part 
of his pose,” she decided. “As housekeeper to the Vallances I 
must be treated with respect. It was purely impersonal.” 

But in this conclusion she wronged the man. Had she over- 
heard the conversation later between aunt and nephew she might 
have modified her views. The old lady, at first inclined to resent 
Sabine’s interference, found no partisan in Mark. 


54 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“I don’t agree with you, Aunt Beth. She did it to spare you, 
a kindly impulse. And that little beast was rude to her — though 
she laughed it off.” He changed the subject, conscious that he 
had said enough. Miss Vallance would think it over. 

That evening as Sabine was writing a letter to Dillon, there 
came an interruption. Her employer appeared on the threshold. 

“What a poor light! You must tell Johnson to give you one 
of the larger lamps. I hope you’re comfortable here?” She 
glanced round the dim room and her eyes fell on Fane’s portrait. 
“Your father?” Her voice was gentle. 

“Yes.” There was subtle pride in the word. 

“A fine face. You must miss him.” The old lady laid her 
hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “Good night, my dear, and 
thank you for your thoughtfulness this afternoon. It’s a comfort 
to feel that I’ve some one here who can fill my place occasionally 
— some one who is dependable.” 

Sabine looked up, her dark eyes wistful, touched by the un- 
expected praise. 

“I hope to be. If you’ll give me time?” 

To her surprise Miss Vallance stooped and kissed her cheek — a 
light caress. 

“Certainly. If you care to stay.” 

In this simple and unforeseen fashion she put an end to the 
term of probation. 


CHAPTER V 


I T was barely five o’clock but the day held promise of great 
heat as Sabine slipped through the hazel grove, rejoicing in 
a sense of adventure. Indeed, with her long rainproof coat 
buttoned up to the throat and a soft felt hat drawn over her eyes 
she looked a hardened conspirator. 

A bramble caught the flap of the former and dragged it back, 
revealing a glimpse of her dark blue bathing-dress and the fringe 
of a bath towel wound round her for better concealment and in 
lieu of orthodox petticoat. Beneath the hat her thick hair was 
tightly bound in an oilskin cap. 

“For I mustn’t get it wet and untidy,” she had decided in her 
room when, awakening early, the daring project had first formed 
in her mind. “That would give the whole show away — though 
I can’t see any harm in it. I can have a swim and get back before 
the household is astir.” 

She had found her way before to the little cove beyond the 
combe that fringed the straggling hazel wood and she gave a 
childish skip of joy when she emerged from the shady path, damp 
and chilly with night dews. 

Such a perfect, golden morning! The gorse ran down in yellow 
waves to the border of the low cliff where an old horse, a pen- 
sioner of the Vallances, was steadily cropping the wiry tufts in 
the outstanding patches of grass. Traces showed of rich red soil 
and beyond this was the blue-green sea with its black rocks where 
the laver clung adding to the vivid colour. 

Sabine thought of the Mediterranean and smiled, a little scorn- 
fully, recalling the arid note of the land enclosing the tideless 
waters; the palm trees yellowing, and the dusty green of the 

55 


56 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


olives, only redeemed by the magical light. The South could 
not compare, she decided, with the beauty of her own country 
freshly washed by the rain in the full glory of the summer. 

Hawks were wheeling in the sky and beyond them flashed 
silver wings as the gulls rose and swooped again; somewhere, un- 
seen, a lark was singing. A rabbit frisked into his burrow, 
startled by the girl's light step, and the old horse turned and 
stared with a faint whinny at her approach. 

She crossed the combe and made her way down the ragged 
gap where the cliff had crumbled to find herself on a pebbly 
beach with a strip of golden sand for fringe. To her right was the 
long spur of land that formed one horn of the crescent in which 
the fishing village slept. At the point the waves lapped the cliff 
and broke against the jagged rocks in little bursts of dazzling 
spray. She stood drinking in the picture. 

But not for long; the sea called her. Slipping off her shoes 
and stockings she hid them with her other clothes behind a con- 
venient boulder and ran forward over the sand. The water, as 
she plunged in, seemed icy for the first moment, for the sun was 
not strong enough yet to warm it. But very soon she forgot this 
in the perfect joy of swimming. It was her favourite exercise 
and one in which she excelled. At last she paused, out of breath, 
and paddled idly, her gaze turned shorewards, scanning the head- 
land devoid of life and nett against the soft blue heavens. 

Here she made a discovery. Near to the point at a little 
height from the water that washed the base of the cliff was a dark 
patch, semi-circular, like the entrance to a tunnel. 

A cave? The possibility stirred a youthful desire to explore it. 
Taking a course parallel with the headland she soon came abreast 
and, cautious of sunken rocks, sounding the depth from time to 
time, approached the shore. Suddenly she found support for her 
feet; a stony ledge that sloped upwards. She pressed forward 
eagerly, drawing herself out of the water, and stood beneath 
the opening, knee deep in the breaking surf, that frothed, creamy, 
against the rocks. 

The cliff, worn by winter storms, was full of little holes and 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


57 


crannies affording an uncertain foothold. She swarmed up, winc- 
ing a little at the sharp grit which stung her soles but determined 
to see the adventure through. Now she could reach with 
her hands the edge of the wide opening. A minute later she knelt, 
breathless, on the floor of the cavern. 

“Hurrah!” She scrambled to her feet, brushing the sand from 
her bare knees. 

After the dazzling light without, her eyes failed to pierce the 
shadows, for the cave ran back for some distance. She moved 
forward, eagerly, blinking. The space widened, the roof higher. 
As her sight cleared she realised that the water must rarely pene- 
trate save in abnormal tides. For the walls showed no signs of 
it, the floor strewn with fine dry sand and pebbles cast up by 
some winter storm. A cluster of sea-pinks overhung the en- 
trance, deep-rooted in a cleft where the soil had filtered from 
above. The cave was the honoured guest of the land and not a 
troubled host of the waves. 

At last she reached the boundary where the roof shelved down 
to meet the floor and paused, amazed. An old deck chair and 
a table made of wooden slats with a cast-off tarpaulin were 
propped against the sloping wall. In the angle beyond, a rough 
cupboard had been wedged, on rusty iron supports, at a height 
that would preserve it from any rare inundation. Underneath 
was a solid locker suggestive of a ship’s cabin. 

Robinson Crusoe with a vengeance! Here was a cache worth 
finding — especially in the owner’s absence. Sabine stood there, 
puzzling it out. The only approach was from the sea and she 
doubted if a boat could attempt it, the rocky ledge an obstacle. 
Therefore the proud possessor must swim. It added to the mys- 
tery. Could it be a haunt of Mark’s? It did not fit in with 
her conception of the man’s character. It suggested a strain of 
boyish romance. She felt quite sure that “'Crusoe” was young. 

She shivered, suddenly aware of her wet and clinging bathing- 
dress. Yet she felt reluctant to leave the place. She was tempted 
to peep inside the cupboard. A scruple kept her wavering but 
feminine curiosity won. 


5 « 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“It can’t hurt,” she decided, “if it held any secrets the owner 
would lock it.” 

She stood on tiptoe but failed to reach the primitive fastening. 
Undaunted, she dragged out the locker from underneath and 
mounted upon it. 

“Now!” She tugged at the knob. 

The door suddenly flew back, nearly upsetting the girl’s bal- 
ance. She peered in eagerly. Beer! How terribly prosaic. 

A row of bottles and a mug stood on the lowest shelf with an 
ancient pipe and tobacco jar. On the one above, rolled up, was 
a shabby old coat in pilot cloth. 

Some fisherman’s haunt, she decided, with a slight feeling of 
disappointment. The next moment she changed her mind. For 
beside the bundle lay a blotter of faded leather, bulging with 
papers, a bottle of ink and a fountain pen. One scribbled sheet 
protruded. 

Dare she? Guiltily, fully aware of trespassing, she drew it 
forth and studied the writing with which it was covered. 

Not Mark’s! The letters sloped backwards with sharp angles 
in a large irregular hand quite unlike her employer’s neat and 
rounded caligraphy. A stray phrase caught her eye. 

“ . . . the relentless sea, that knows no law of justice nor 
mercy, bound alone by its tides and seasons, giving life unheed- 
ingly and taking its full toll of death.” 

Here was no simple fisherman’s logic. 

She thrust it back hastily with a sense of added mystery and 
was preparing to close the cupboard when a clear, unmistakable 
sound behind her sent a shiver down her spine. A voice, angry 
and explosive, had betrayed its owner with one sharp: “Damn!” 

Sabine wheeled round, still clutching the swinging door. For 
a moment of amazed horror she saw, framed in the opening, the 
naked shoulders and chest of a man, topped by a wet, fair head 
with blue eyes that glowered at her; in the next, Mark had 
ducked from sight. There was only the empty stretch of water 
with the sea-pinks nodding over the arch. 

Sabine, without consciousness of her descent from the locker, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


59 


found herself crouching on the sand in the dark corner, too 
startled to think, but instinctively aware of her skin-tight, single 
garment. 

Reason slowly returned and with it a rising anger. 

“How hateful!” She struck her hands together, “To be 
caught — like this — in the act of spying. That’s the climax! 
It simply means giving him the whip-hand .” She choked with 
intense mortification. Here was the ruin of all her plans, her 
studied air of aloofness. She cast a nervous glance seaward. 
“But he’d never come back. He couldn’t — like that!” 

It was evident that Mark reverted at this early hour in the 
morning to the primitive habits of his boyhood, disdaining the 
more conventional dress that had come into vogue with mixed 
bathing. To Sabine, accustomed to foreign life, it seemed still 
more indecorous. 

“It’s just like him!” She felt glad to cast the blame on the 
man, aware of her own predicament. “He wouldn’t care who 
saw him. It’s a part of his droits de seigneur ” 

A new disquieting thought followed. How was she to get back? 
The servants came down at half-past six and meanwhile Mark 
cut off her retreat. 

She stole to the mouth of the cave and peered forth nervously. 
Far away she could see the flash of an arm in the sunshine, and 
the blot of a fair head rising and falling with the swell. Mark 
was swimming for his life! He passed the smooth spit of land 
and turned to the shore. The next minute she saw him vanish 
behind some rocks — a scuttering, white figure. It was evident 
that he, too, was filled with panic. The fact consoled her. 

But the consolation was fugitive. All the way home as she 
ran, breathless, with the salt glow tingling through her limbs, the 
radiant sunshine beating down joyfully on her disguise, depres- 
sion veiled from her the sight of the yellow gorse; the song of 
the larks beat unheeded on her ears. 

She would have to meet Mark at lunch and face him under 
: Miss Vallance’s eyes. How would he act? What would he say? 

This single meal with the family had been a concession on the 


6o 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


part of the little old lady, conscious of the loneliness of the girl's 
position — a tribute to her gentle birth. Sabine had welcomed 
the innovation. It brought a relief from the round of work. She 
was fond of studying character and the Vallances were a quaint 
pair. It gave her, too, a mischievous chance of playing the part 
she had mapped out vis-ci-vis to the nephew. More than once 
she had divined his impatience at her attitude; that manner out- 
wardly “respectful" which hid a lurking sense of humour. 

To Miss Vallance she talked frankly ; to Mark she listened — 
nothing more. She drew a subtle distinction between them, too 
fine to attract the old lady's attention but not unrealized by the 
man. It made him, at certain moments, plainly nervous in his 
speech. 

Now, through one foolish impulse, she had put herself hope- 
lessly in the wrong. Why, oh why had she thought of the cave, 
above all, explored the cupboard? She writhed with shame at 
the memory all through the busy forenoon as she lifted lavender- 
scented sheets from the linen-press and replaced those freshly 
returned from the laundry, dated the eggs in their wooden stand, 
some still warm from the nest, scrutinized the scoured pans in the 
dairy and wrote those endless lists. The hours flew past all too 
swiftly and the gong rang, true to time, as she was hurriedly 
washing her hands. 

She gave one glance at herself in the glass as she turned to the 
door, buttoning her cuffs. A high colour was in her cheeks. It 
added brilliancy to her eyes. Little tendrils of silky hair that 
had escaped from the smooth mass, slightly crushed by her 
bathing-cap, rioted on her low forehead. They gave an added 
touch of youth to her irregular charming face, the nose tip-tilted, 
brows too straight for any claim to classical beauty. Her mouth 
with its delicate curves, hinting at mischief yet sensitive, seemed 
abnormally red as she passed; for the exercise had quickened her 
blood. 

The adjective that had risen unsought evoked a fugitive 
memory — a line treasured from some book. She ran downstairs, 
searching the author. Kipling! Her brow cleared. What had 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


61 


he said? “When you find a variation from the normal, meet it in 
an abnormal way.” Something like that, anyhow! It supplied 
the answer to her riddle. 

“I shan’t wait for Mark to strike. I shall open up the subject 
myself.” She paused, her hand on the dining-room door knob. 
“It’s the last thing that he’d expect!” In she went, her head 
high, determined to risk the disclosure. 

Miss Vallance sat with her back to the window, her nephew 
facing her across the long, well-laid table with its fine old silver 
and bowls of flowers. 

“I hope I’m not late?” was Sabine’s excuse. She had already 
seen the old lady, but she bowed to Mark as she took her place. 
“Good morning!” Mark avoided her eyes and murmured the 
conventional greeting. “And such a lovely morning too.” She 
turned to Miss Vallance confidingly. “I must tell you of my 
adventures.” 

Mark stirred in his chair. Miss Vallance, luckily, was in a 
tranquil, indulgent mood. She was beginning to realize the 
result of her strenuous training, with increasing confidence in 
her pupil. It meant more leisure for gardening and to-day she 
had pottered happily among her roses, gathering the fullest blooms 
for potpourri . 

“Adventures?” She smiled at Sabine. “You’ve been so busy 
this morning I wonder you’ve had time for any.” 

“Ah, but I was up at five!” The girl laughed, refusing the 
wine that the maid offered. A part of her pride was to drink 
only water now. She never forgot her changed position, although 
in many little ways she was treated as a guest and especially at 
the midday meal. She waited until the maid had gone and then 
resumed her confession. “I was in the sea at half-past! I woke 
early and the water looked so tempting in the sunshine. There 
wasn’t a single soul about — apparently.” She dared the word. 
“So I slipped on a coat, crossed the combe to the little beach and 
plunged in. You don’t mind?” Her voice was coaxing 

“No — o.” Miss Vallance was taken aback. “But wasn’t 
the water very cold? And do you think it’s quite safe, bathing 


62 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


alone like that? Supposing you went out too far — or had 
cramp?” She gave a shiver. “I'm not sure I ought to allow it. 
What do you think, Mark?” 

Sabine deliberately followed the glance, though it needed her 
full courage. Mark seemed to be engrossed in severing the meat 
from his cutlet. He answered the question evasively. 

“I presume that Miss Fane can swim.” His eyes were riveted 
on his plate. 

“Oh, yes,” said Sabine lightly. “I once won a silver cup. In 
a water-fete abroad.” 

“Indeed?” Miss Vallance looked relieved. “All the same I 
hope you’ll be careful. There’s a strong tide round the point. 
And how do you manage about dressing? Liddingcombe is too 
primitive to indulge in proper bathing machines.” 

Mark laid down his knife and fork. He looked straight across 
at his aunt. 

“I will rig up a tent for Miss Fane. There’s that old one in 
the loft. It will do quite well, with some new ropes.” 

Sabine could hardly believe her ears. It was said in a careless 
way, with his old air of patronage. 

“He’s scored,” she thought angrily. 

“That’s a good idea.” Miss Vallance approved. She added 
ingenuously, “Did you have a bathe yourself this morning?” 

Mark nodded. Sabine, watchful underneath her dark lashes, 
saw the blood creep up his neck to the edge of his crisp hair. It 
was Mark’s way of blushing. She felt a malicious satisfaction. 
She remembered that she had not acknowledged his suggestion 
on her behalf. 

“It’s kind of you,” she said stiffly, “to think of a tent, but the 
beach is so near I can easily run down in my coat.” She turned 
in Miss Vallance’s direction. “In Italy my father and I always 
bathed like that. We had a villa one summer close to Viareggio. 
We used to meet D’Annunzio there.” She wanted to change the 
conversation. His name served as a pivot. “I see he has written 
a wonderful poem stirring his countrymen to action. I wonder if 
Italy will come in?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 63 

Miss Vallance’s smile died away and from her lips, curt, ve- 
hement, came a startled: 

“God forbid it!” 

Sabine, puzzled, stared at her. Then she guessed her mis- 
conception. 

“Of course, I mean on our side.” She corrected her remark 
quickly. “It’s a very difficult position for Italy, isn’t it? But 
they’ve always hated Austria. I think it will come all right in 
the end.” 

“Right?” Miss Vallance seemed agitated. “How can right 
grow out of wrong, or any good be achieved by sin? This war is 
a crime towards God and man.” 

The listener’s bewilderment increased. 

“On the part of Germany?” she suggested, and was about to 
add more when Mark checked her, his voice icy: 

“We never discuss the war, Miss Fane.” 

It was not a statement but an order. The colour mounted to 
her forehead. Rarely before in her life, even in the days of 
childhood, had she been spoken to like this. With an effort she 
controlled herself. But she looked at Mark scornfully, her lip 
curling. It said plainly: 

“No, you’ve no right to — shirking at home!” 

He stared back moodily, his thick, fair brows drawn together, 
the blue eyes coldly defiant. Then deliberately he began to talk 
to his aunt on local matters, excluding the girl from the conver- 
sation. 

Miss Vallance poured out the coffee. Her hand was shaking. 
Fane’s daughter, rigid in the high-backed chair, was fighting 
against open revolt. 

Wild thoughts whirled through her brain. Was this the man’s 
mean revenge? Or had she stumbled on the truth, hitherto 
veiled from her, that her employers were numbered among a class 
that she looked upon with horror, lost to all patriotism? She 
recalled now other occasions when some chance remark anent 
the war had been met by a vague silence. So busy had been the 
flying days that her own interest in the struggle had been overlaid 


6 4 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


by the manifold needs of her new occupation. Only at night, 
after her supper in the seclusion of her room, had she found time 
to read the paper. This had retarded the revelation. 

Miss Vallance rose from the table. 

“I think I shall have a little rest before I start for the Mal- 
isons’. Are you going to drive me there, Mark?” 

“Well — I could. You’re not staying long?” He had a rooted 
objection to calls. 

“No.” She smiled, aware of his thought. “You needn’t come 
in if you don’t want to.” 

“All right.” He stood up and opened the door for his aunt. 

Sabine was following in her wake, but Mark checked her on 
the threshold. 

“Miss Fane, may I have a w r ord with you?” 

She faced him, very still and proud. 

“I’m at your service, Mr. Vallance.” 

He waited until the little old lady was mounting the stairs 
then closed the door. 

“There’s something I want to explain.” He stood, looking 
down at Sabine from his great height, and squared his shoulders 
as though he foresaw an unpleasant task. “It’s only fair to you,” 
he added. 

He could feel, beating back from her a steady wave of ag- 
gression, which was partly her dislike to himself and partly a 
more primitive instinct, the eternal warfare of the sexes. 

Suddenly his lips twisted into a half smile. 

“I suppose you think” — he paused for a moment searching 
the exact phrase — “that you’ve fallen headlong into a nest of 
Conscientious Objectors?” 

“It seems so,” said Sabine coolly. 

“A natural conclusion.” His voice was dry. “But the facts 
are not so simple as that. My aunt is a Quaker — you didn’t 
know it?” He had seen Sabine’s eyes widen. “She goes to 
church, so you might not have guessed. Somebody must.” He 
shrugged his shoulders. “An example to the villagers. But her 
conduct is based on the Quaker’s creed. This war has been a 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


65 


severe shock. She looks on it as the devil's work — as a crime 
against humanity. To reason against this opinion is hopeless. 
Worse than that, it is so upsetting at her age and with her health, 
that my warning to you just now was" — he paused — “un- 
avoidable.” 

“Yes?” The word was faintly amused. 

Mark let the challenge pass. He v/ent on steadily: 

“My aunt has been through much trouble. I owe her every- 
thing in the world. I have fallen into line with her although I 
hold opposite views.” 

Sabine drew a breath of relief, unconscious of the action. 

“That's some comfort,” she said bluntly. “'But it's difficult to 
realize.” Her eyes narrowed on the words. 

He guessed her thought and again she saw the hot flush beneath 
his skin, bronzed though it was by outdoor life. Suddenly his 
calm broke down. 

“I can't go! Don’t you understand?” It was almost as if he 
threatened her. “It’s intolerable! But I've got to stick it.” 
There was fierce despair in his voice. 

For the first time she felt a touch of sympathy for the man. 
She had pierced his guard and found him human. The outburst 
had been unexpected. She met him now half-way. 

“You want to fight?” 

Mark smiled. He had himself in hand again. 

“I was brought up to be a soldier,” The quiet words carried 
weight. He turned abruptly and moved to the window. Staring 
out at the green lawn with its frame of flowers, so gay in the 
sunshine, he went on huskily, “I daren’t risk it. It would kill 
her.” 

Sabine’s face was very thoughtful. Pity was warring with 
distrust. And what a soldier he would make! Her eyes sur- 
veyed his muscular form, suggestive of power and endurance. 

“I wonder if you’re right,” she queried. “All over England, 
now, there are women, both delicate and old, parting from those 
they love best — husbands, children, only sons. Your aunt — ” 
She paused. 


66 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Has been more than a parent.” Mark spoke over his shoulder. 
“And there’s something else that I can’t tell you. It’s her secret, 
not mine.” 

Sabine wondered. A silence followed. 

Mark swung round suddenly. 

“That’s not the point.” His voice was hard. “I’m not com- 
plaining — I’ve no right to. But I wanted you to understand. 
You’re a great comfort to Aunt Beth. Her health’s improving, 
she’s taking rest. Are you going to stay?” He spoke abruptly. 

Sabine looked down at her hands. The slim fingers were locked 
together. She wore her father’s signet ring with his crest, her 
only ornament. She studied it for a moment, thinking of the 
dead man. 

“Are you satisfied with me?” she asked. The question was as 
direct as his. 

“Yes.” 

She knew it had cost him an effort, the measure of his love for 
Miss Vallance. She felt a grudging respect for him. 

“Thank you. I see no reason why, if I’m competent, I should 
not stay.” She moved back as she spoke with a curious desire 
to escape from the man’s subtle domination, to be by herself 
and think clearly. She glanced at the clock pointedly. “Is that 
all? Will you excuse me?” 

He gave her a shrewd glance. It ran over her youthful face 
and changed, its unconscious arrogance melting into something 
wistful, the silent appeal of a lonely soul. But all he said was: 

“Certainly.” 

In a curious panic she retreated. She was baffled by her own 
sensations. On the threshold she looked back. 

Mark had dismissed her from his mind. His eyes were fixed 
upon a portrait that hung in the alcove by the window. A flicker 
of red caught the light, the dull red of uniform, laced with gold, 
finely mellowed by the blurring hand of Time. 

The smile had returned to his lips as he looked up at his 
ancestor but it held no shadow of amusement only the bitterness 
of defeat. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 67 

The girl shivered, running upstairs. She was caught anew by 
the mystery that seemed to haunt the old house. 

“He could go if he liked. It’s all nonsense!” she said to her- 
self angrily. Yet the very vehemence of the speech betrayed the 
doubt in her heart. 


CHAPTER VI 


O N a day when the fishing village was drenched by a cold 
rain that drove up from the sea on the wings of a storm 
that sent the waves grinding angrily on the beach, Dillon 
arrived at Liddingcombe. 

But the Irishwoman was weather-proof. Not even the draughty 
carrier’s conveyance that had brought her from the distant junc- 
tion could dim her joy in the reunion, as Sabine kissed her 
wrinkled cheeks and duly admired the “new bonnet” and the 
tight black coat buttoned across the ample curves of her motherly 
bosom. 

With the first warm clasp of her nurse’s arms, the strain of 
the past weeks relaxed; Dillon supplied a safety-valve for the 
girl’s pent-up perplexities. At last she could talk openly, sure of 
a loving sympathy that held no hint of patronage, but was vivified 
by imagination. “Dilly is sure to understand”: the old cry of 
her childhood. 

Sabine had found rooms for her in the main road fringing the 
sea, graced by the few and primitive shops supplying the local 
needs. Her parlour boasted a curved bay-window filled with 
those melancholy plants that seem indigenous to lodgings and take 
no toll of the seasons but continue imperceptibly to push forth 
broad spiked leaves of a dingy green, in need of sponging. Over 
this modest barricade Dillon could watch the passers-by and, 
veiled by the coarse net curtain, inhale the “life” of the village. 

The tight-lipped, sombre woman who owned the house had 
parted from her husband a few weeks since, his dreams of rest 
after long years in the mercantile marine shattered by the urgent 
needs of war. He was now in charge of a trawler somewhere in 

68 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


69 


the North Sea. Her thoughts, brooding eternally on the dangers 
of those mine-swept waters, found relief in active work and she 
had welcomed the chance of a lodger. 

Sabine had chosen wisely; the woman was no village gossip. 
This had been the girl’s main care. Dillon, carefully primed by 
post, had promised caution in her speech. The photographs of 
her darling in all her ancient finery remained at the bottom of 
her trunk. There was to be no allusion to the luxury of their 
life abroad, nor to the status of the Fanes. Sabine’s pride revolted 
from local curiosity. She did not wish to pose as one who — in 
village speech — had “come down in the world.” She craved a 
respect that was wholly confined to success in her present post. 
Besides this, it was 'quite difficult enough to define the position 
in which she stood without further complications. For Miss Val- 
lance was variable; at one moment gracious and friendly, at an- 
other the aloof employer. 

Dillon, over the lengthy “tea,” with its “Chudleighs” thick 
with clotted cream — a kindly attention from Miss Vallance to 
whom Sabine had confided the news of her nurse’s visit — 
listened shrewdly to the recital and formed her own private con- 
clusions. She guessed that Mark was the stumbling-block. 

“And small wonder,” she said to herself, watching the vivid, 
clear-skinned face that smiled above the “best” teapot. “She’d 
charm the heart out of anny man!” 

This touch of romance awoke in her a wild new ambition for 
her charge. Providence had led Sabine straight into the Vallance 
household. Mark was clearly ordained for her as a way out of 
all her troubles. But she must move warily; above all in inno- 
cence. Dillon would be the last to stir the girl’s slumbering sus- 
picions. 

She asked for details of Mark’s appearance. Sabine, in 
the glow of meeting the confidante of many years, was generous in 
her description. 

“And him fair — as it should be,” Dillon privately decided. 

The damning fact in Sabine’s eyes of his evasion of active 
service held very little weight with her nurse. The tendency to 


70 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


rebel against any form of “tyranny” — the expression was an 
elastic one — so common among her countrymen, and an inborn 
grudge towards England warped her sense of patriotism. Besides, 
who wanted a husband fighting? She approved his devotion to 
his aunt and even his “old-maidish ways.” Properly domesticated, 
he would be easier to manage. 

The scheme, gathering shape in her mind, was crowned by a 
sight of the man himself ; an anxious moment, for Dillon believed 
firmly in first impressions. 

They were sitting in the bay-window watching the turmoil of 
the sea through a gap in the row of cottages facing them and 
which permitted the retreat of the retired captain to boast the 
name of Sea View. 

Dillon felt a touch on her knee as Sabine drew back quickly 
from the chance of being observed and whispered: 

“There’s Mr. Vallance — coming now! Don’t let him see you 
watching him.” 

The nurse’s grey eyes narrowed. She peered through the screen 
of aspidistras. 

A tall figure in dingy oil-skins was striding down the muddy 
road, his rough boots disdaining puddles, his head thrown back on 
his broad shoulders. About him was an air of impatience and of 
unconscious ownership that overlooked the use of the pavement. 
The grocer’s cart, lumbering up, drew aside for him to pass and 
he gave the man a curt salute. Dillon’s glance sped quickly to 
the face of the youthful driver. There was a loyal eagerness in 
the way the boy acknowledged the greeting. 

“He’s the old nurse suggested. 

“Yes — that’s the queer part of it.” Sabine watched the re- 
treating figure. “They’d do anything for him. He seems to take 
it as his right. Yet he only owns a slice of the village. Sir 
Joshua Gull is the Squire; both here and at Lidding St. Mary. 
He’s a good landlord, and generous, but not in the least popular. 
Whereas the Vallances are loved.” 

- “But they can love too,” said Dillon, her eyes glued to the 
window. “It’s not all on one side.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


7i 


A child in an open doorway had run out at Mark’s approach 
with a chuckling cry drowned by the wind that buffeted the tiny 
figure. Mark had halted, then crossed the pavement. They 
saw him swing the baby up out of the driving lash of the rain and 
the pair vanished into the cottage. 

A minute later the man reappeared, laughing, a buxom woman 
behind him, her face still warm from some parting remark. Mark 
nodded and passed on, but the woman lingered, screened by the 
door, firmly grasped by a plump hand with an imbedded wedding- 
ring. There was devotion in the look she cast after the hurrying 
figure, oil-skins flapping against his gaiters. 

Sabine met Dillon’s eyes. 

“Yes, he’s good to them,” she conceded. 

“And fond of the childer,” thought Dillon, her plans racing 
gaily ahead. But what was Sabine’s attitude? Was her indiffer- 
ence assumed? She set a little trap for her. 

“A grand-lookin’ gintleman — if he didn’t wear them owld 
clothes.” 

“Oh, clothes don’t matter here,” said Sabine. “Besides, this 
weather — ” She shrugged her shoulders, conscious with a faint 
amusement that she was finding excuses for Mark. 

“An’ bein’ what he is, he doesn’t trouble,” the old nurse sup- 
plemented. She changed the subject. “Miss Vallance, now, 
would she be taking it amiss if ye thanked her for me for the 
clotted crame?” 

“No, I’ll tell her you enjoyed it. She says you must come up 
some day and have tea with me in my room.” 

For this had been one of the “pleasant mornings” when the 
little old lady had unbent, watching Sabine arrange the flowers 
and ruining her crowning effort by introducing some maidenhair 
fern; a “touch of green” that Sabine avoided with its hothouse 
pretension which seemed to war with Nature’s original design. 

Dillon evaded the invitation. She preferred to remain in the 
background at present. 

“We’ll see, dearie. I’ll be here when ye’re wanting me and 
watching for ye. An’ bring me down somethin’ to work at — I 


72 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


can’t sit with me hands idle. Mending or a bit of washing? 
There’s that length of grey satin we bought togither at Woolland’s 
sale. I’m thinkin’ t’would make a fine blouse for you to wear in 
the cowld weather.” 

“Oh, Dilly, you old fraud!” Sabine hugged her tenderly. 
“You know quite well that I gave it to you.” 

“Indade an’ ye didn’t, Miss Sabine.” The grey eyes were 
bright with love. “It’s confused in your mind you are! ’Twas 
the brown rimnant with the stripes.” 

They proceeded to argue it out. Dillon remained unconvinced. 

“And what should I do with a fine silk blouse in a God-forsaken 
country like this? Ye’ll bring me down a good pattern. I could 
copy the mauve crepe de Chiny ” She clasped her worn hands 
together and her simple joy overflowed. “To feel that I’m 
back with you agin and that old Dilly ’s of some use!” 

Before such tender eloquence, Sabine gave in. The memory 
was warm in her heart as she set forth through the driving rain, 
homeward bound, her long coat buttoned by “Dilly” up to her 
chin, clutching on to her umbrella. She was unconscious of 
following steps, for the gale was gathering in force and at the 
turning inland where the last white cottage gleamed in the dusk 
a snapping gust of wind rushed past, caught her umbrella from 
underneath and turned it completely inside out. 

As she fought with it she became aware of a presence beside 
her. A strong hand grasped the stick and shouted a warning: 

“Look out! Your hat’s going next!” 

Her hands, released, went up to her head and clutched the 
soft felt brim in time. Bewildered she saw that her helper was 
Mark. The blue eyes laughed down at her from under his drip- 
ping sou’wester. 

“I’ll put this ship-shape.” He swung round, juggling with the 
outraged en-tout-cas. The wind, as though regretting its trick of 
a minute since, reversed the process; with a click the umbrella 
righted itself. 

“But I think we’d better roll it up,” Mark continued. “It’s 
no good.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


73 


Sabine had recovered her wits, the hat-pins driven firmly home. 

“Please. Thank you very much.” 

“The loop’s torn off,” Mark stated. Diving into a deep 
pocket, he produced some string. One end in his teeth, he rolled 
it round the fluttering folds. “There!” He tucked it under his 
arm. 

“I’ll take it,” said Sabine quickly. 

“No.” He was obstinate. 

They fell into step, side by side. 

“I thought you were going up with the umbrella! I only just 
arrived in time.” He seemed to be in a mischievous mood. 

“Like a sausage balloon,” suggested Sabine, “on the lookout 
for the German fleet.” She regretted the words immediately. 
Why couldn’t she have avoided the war? 

He seemed to realize her discomfort, for he ignored the awk- 
ward subject. 

“You oughtn’t to be out this weather. We rarely get such a 
gale, even in the winter months. I suppose you started before 
it grew bad?” 

She explained the important reason. Mark listened, his head 
bent to catch the words, walking close to the girl in order to shield 
her as much as he could. 

“I’ve an old nurse too,” he said. “She lives up at Lidding St. 
Mary — a dear soul but very deaf. When I’m in trouble I fly 
to her.” His mouth took a whimsical curve. “But it’s difficult 
to be confidential when one has to shout at the top of one’s voice. 
Like I’m doing now!” He laughed outright. For the wind made 
havoc of his speech. “There’s the wall! Now, you’ll get some 
shelter.” 

Sabine nodded, out of breath. In the lee of the stones she 
glanced at Mark. She had never seen him before in this mood, at 
once boyish and reassuring. 

“He’s really kind,” she said to herself. “He needn’t have 
caught me up at all. Or just passed and raised his hat.” And 
she thought of the scene in the narrow street, Mark with the 
tiny child in his arms. 


74 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


He was aware of her scrutiny and met it with a slow smile. 
He seemed to come to some decision that touched his own sense 
of humour and he broke the silence that threatened them. 

, “I’ve been longing for ages to ask you something. Had you 
met Vox before, or was that the first introduction? I mean on 
the day you came to explore.” 

The unexpected question amused her. 

“No. Til be honest.” She related the history of the thorn 
and the spaniel’s gratitude. Somewhat childishly, she added, 
“But don’t give the secret away.” 

“Not I,” said her companion. “If there’s one thing I hate, 
it’s an anti-climax. But I had a glimpse of the truth. Vox is 
not troubled by politeness in his attitude to strangers.” 

“Why ‘Vox’?” She had often wondered. 

“Because he’s a power in the land. Ignored, sneered at when 
quiescent, but attended to when he shouts! His other name is 
popuM* She laughed. He went on happily, “I’ll admit it’s far- 
fetched, but we’d had three generations of ‘Dans’ and I couldn’t 
think of anything better. It humbled him too. He was inclined 
to look down on his surroundings — to assume what our friend 
Miss Gull condemns as a true ‘Lidding St. Mary air.’ You see 
he was born in the old kennels.” 

There was faint satire in the speech. The girl felt taken aback. 
So he knew what people said of him? 

“Perhaps he has tried to bite the lady?” She threw it out care- 
lessly. *■ 

“Not only tried ” Mark chuckled. He held back the door in 
the wall. 

She glanced at him, as she passed through, over her shoulder, 
the action free from any thought of coquetry, but undeniably 
attractive. 

“I’m glad,” she whispered, her eyes dancing, “I don’t think I 
care for ’Enrietta” 

“No?” His thick fair brows went up in assumed surprise. 
“But that’s rank heresy! She’s such an improving young lady.” 

Sabine’s face, mischievous, with its bright colour and wind- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


75 


blown hair was good to look upon, he thought. He had realized 
that she was pretty, somewhat grudgingly, from the start, but 
this was the first occasion in which her charm — the charm of 
the Fanes that was due to no glamour of regular lines but arose 
from personality, elusive yet deepening on acquaintance — took 
full hold of the man. It stirred him unaccountably. He turned 
and carefully fastened the door; a simple affair, yet he lingered. 

The wind in the gully formed by the lawn sent the girl hurry- 
ing forward to the kindly shelter of the porch. Once inside she 
shed her coat and mindful of the polished stairs, stooped to pull 
off her galoshes. They resisted her efforts, sticky with mud. 

“You’ll dirty your hands.” Mark was behind her. “Let me 
do it.” Bending down, he cut short her protestations, his mus- 
cular fingers, slender but strong, gripping the wet rubber. 

At that moment the drawing-room door opened to disclose 
Miss Vallance. She stood there, surveying the pair, very erect, in 
silent surprise. 

Sabine, aware of disapproval, felt suddenly guilty, for no cause: 
the absurd guilt of the innocent. 

“The carpets — ” She spoke incoherently, out of sheer ner- 
vousness. 

Miss Vallance made no response. 

Snatching up the galoshes, Sabine beat a hasty retreat. She 
was furiously angry with herself. Why hadn’t she taken the 
matter calmly? As calmly as Mark, whom she hadn’t thanked 
and whose voice followed her up the staircase. 

“I’ll keep your umbrella, Miss Fane. I fancy that the catch 
is loose but it only needs a little attention.” 

She leaned over the banisters. 

“Thanks very much, Mr. Vallance, but please don’t trouble. 
It’s not worth it.” 

“It’s a very good umbrella,” said Mark. “You leave it to me. 
I’ll put it right.” 

She realized gratefully that he was covering her retreat. For 
the quiet, well-bred voice went on, this time addressing the aunt: 

“It turned inside out — at the gate. Luckily I came up in 


?6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


time. You can hardly stand against this gale. Well, how are 
you, old lady? It’s bad weather for your neuralgia.” 

Sabine, thoughtful, reached her room. 

“ ‘At the gate’?” She repeated the words; then stared at her- 
self in the glass, aghast. 

Her felt hat was tipped sideways and a glossy coil of dark 
hair hung in a loop on her soaked, shoulder whilst about her face 
the wild curls, stirred by raindrops, rioted. Her eyes were 
brilliant, her cheeks flushed. She looked like some schoolgirl 
playing truant, after a mad romp through the woods. 

She did not realize that the effect had held for Mark the 
charm of a picture, as free and unconcerned as Nature. She 
saw herself in Miss Vallance’s eyes, dishevelled, Mark’s hand 
upon her ankle, a little uncertain of her balance, clutching the 
sleeve of his slippery coat. Her annoyance found vent in a single 
word as she pitched the soaked hat on the floor. 

But this childish act of temper stirred humour from its hiding- 
place. She sank down in the wicker chair and gave herself up to 
helpless mirth. The worn seat creaked beneath her and the 
frilled chintz, with its faded pattern, added a rustle of disap- 
proval. She laughed and laughed until she cried. 

For her visit to Dillon had aroused vivid memories of the past. 
The present seemed some fantastic dream, suggesting private 
theatricals where she posed and fluttered with grey side-curls — 
an immaculate dowager. 

“The ‘respectable housekeeper’!” she sobbed, wiping the tears 
from her eyes. “I don’t wonder at her face. And caught — in 
the act — with the cherished nephew!” 

Later, more sober thoughts followed, with a memory of the 
man’s tact and his kindliness on their walk home. Had she mis- 
judged Mark? She went back over the old ground. Even to 
that speech of his overheard by accident and the encounter in the 
cave. 

Above all things she revered fair play and now, probing the 
facts, she admitted that her own attitude had served to emphasize 
the gulf between them. Mark was not a man to snub. He had 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


77 


the faults of strength, not weakness, and Sabine was forced to 
admit the truth: there were fine points in his character. He was 
tender to all creatures in trouble. His unselfish behaviour to his 
aunt and his patience were unusual. If he had stooped to a mean 
revenge he could have taken his due to-night. Instead of which 
— “At the gate.” The little phrase haunted her. 

It had cleared the victim from suspicion in the shrewd old 
lady’s mind. Sabine had not waylaid Mark; their meeting had 
been accidental. And the girl understood men. They disdained 
trifling with the truth in small matters. Yet Mark had stooped 
to a deliberate misstatement. It humbled her, yet unconsciously 
was flattering to her youthful pride. Many a woman has been 
won by a lie born of chivalry. 


CHAPTER VII 


OOKING back in later years, it seemed to Sabine incredible 



how swiftly after this occurrence they were swept forward 


— * into friendship — and out beyond to perilous country 
where Dillon, no longer the eager accomplice, strove in vain to 
check their madness. There was something pathetic in the fact 
that the loving old woman had been the first to believe in the 
“hand of Providence” as the directing factor, scenting romance 
where none existed, so deeply imbued was she with her nursling’s 
unfailing charm. 

On the morning after the gale, Sabine had risen to her work 
reassured. She wisely concluded that Miss Vallance would not 
refer to the scene overnight. It involved Mark and her family 
pride. But she showed her displeasure in other ways. 

For a week she was the “aloof employer” and, what was more 
exasperating, she watched the pair covertly. Sabine grew to 
dread the sound of the gong summoning her to lunch. Mark, 
alive to the situation, was restive, then obstinate. He would draw 
the girl, against her will, into the current conversation and refer 
to her judgment in indoor matters with a man’s obtuse disdain 
for the secret ways of the opposite sex. He knew that Sabine 
was being punished. This injustice on the part of his aunt nettled 
him and, although he maintained a studied air of indifference, he 
turned aside many shafts intended for the young girl, under a 
cloak of “household directions” which hinted at her incompe- 
tence. 

Sabine, comforted by Dillon, kept a straight course between 
them, deferential to Miss Vallance, cool though courteous to the 
nephew. But Youth, that is ever the strongest link in the pres- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


79 


ence of crabbed Age, tripped her up at odd moments. Impossible 
to avoid a quick, answering twinkle of eyes when Mark after a 
dressing-down observed that the wind was in the east! Johnson, 
handing the potatoes, felt the current that passed between them 
and smiled as she left the room. “Mr. Mark” was “waking up!” 

On the following day the storm broke. 

Miss Vallance rose in a certain mood which was well-known to 
her retainers. They summed it up as “pernickety-mad.” The 
larger share of her displeasure fell upon Sabine’s shoulders as 
the little old lady peered and poked into every corner of the 
house searching causes for complaint. But Mark came under the 
ban too. Sabine, wrestling with the stores, could hear the shrill, 
aggrieved old voice, disputing some point, in her nephew’s sanc- 
tum. Portions of the conversation drifted across as Sabine, 
perched on the low steps — Mark’s handiwork — searched, in 
vain, an upper shelf for some phantom pots of currant jelly. 

“I can’t help it, Aunt Beth. You must put up with present 
conditions, the scarcity of labour and so forth. . . . Leave 
Griggs? But that’s absurd! The man’s doing all he can — he 
has promised me the first chance. He’s up to his eyes in work 
and both his sons have enlisted. What? . . . Now, look here, 
old lady, we won’t go into all that.” There was infinite weariness 
in his voice. The listener felt sympathetic. 

There came an ominous crash from the kitchen. Sabine flew to 
investigate the fresh disaster and found the cook piecing together 
a casserole that had “slipped” from her hands, very aggressive, 
with: “Accidents will happen, miss, I’m sure I’m as careful as I 
can be,” pat on her tongue at the girl’s approach. 

The nerves of the household were on edge. It needed all 
Sabine’s tact to prevent Johnson from giving notice. Miss Val- 
lance had “remarked on” the silver. 

As she left the pantry, tired but relieved, she heard the former 
say to the housemaid: 

“Working up for a fresh attack. You mark my words, one of 
these days she’ll go off sudden in her tantrums — like the snuff 
of a candle. That’s religion !” 


8o 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine wondered — with a smile at the illogical conclusion. 

The gong rang out under Johnson’s hand like a challenge to 
battle. Miss Vallance appeared, dark rings round her eyes, tight- 
lipped, her face grey. She sat down at the head of the table, 
picked up a fork, scrutinized it and straightened the glasses pro- 
vokingly. Mark watched under set brows. Johnson handed the 
vegetables with a rigid arm, her head averted. 

Miss Vallance played with her food. The suggestion, from 
her nephew, of an alternative in the shape of a “nice poached 
egg” was met with scorn. Once he glanced sideways at Sabine 
as though imploring her assistance. The girl made some nervous 
remark anent her employer’s appetite and was promptly snubbed 
by the latter. Then Mark blundered badly: 

“You’re worn-out! Why can't you rest?” 

“Rest?” said Miss Vallance. She proceeded to point out suc- 
cinctly that this was her nephew’s prerogative. 

The man’s temper gave way under the strain of her aggression. 

“You’re quite right. I’m not wanted here. My proper place 
is at the Front.” 

A startled gasp escaped Miss Vallance. She rose and pointed 
to the door. There was infinite dignity in the gesture. It was 
backed by the full force of her spirit. Mark went out without a 
word, his face stony, shoulders squared. 

But it had the effect of a victory. There was something men- 
acing in his silence; his quiet, male determination to avoid a 
scene with a woman. 

Sabine, deeply uncomfortable, applauded his action in her 
heart. 

“I’m glad he didn’t apologize,” she said to herself rebelliously. 
“Good old Mark! She is a tyrant.” But her eyes were glued to 
her plate; she dreaded the other’s intuition. 

The meal was concluded without remark. Johnson appeared 
with the coffee and whisked off the unwanted cup. As she passed 
Sabine her lips twitched and the girl guessed her intention. 
Mark would have his, hot, from the kitchen. All the servants 
worshipped him. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Si 


At last it was over. Sabine rose, with a sense of reprieve. She 
glanced furtively at Miss Vallance and was startled by her 
deathly pallor. 

“You’re not well?” She moved forward obeying her humane 
impulse. “Is there anything I can get for you?” 

“No, thanks,” said Miss Vallance coldly. “I’m quite well.” 
She stood erect yet pathetic, grasping the back of her chair ; then, 
with an effort, moved across to the fire and warmed her thin old 
hands. “This sharp weather doesn’t suit me.” With an air of 
dismissal she concluded, “It’s your afternoon out, I believe.” 

The crude reminder checked Sabine and swept away her gen- 
erous pity. 

“Yes, it’s Thursday.” Thankfully, she went upstairs to her 
room. 

She had planned to go for a brisk walk, returning later for tea 
with Dillon, of whom she had only caught brief glimpses on her 
errands to the village. This was to be an “occasion” and to 
please the fond old woman she would take especial pains with 
her toilet. As she rearranged her hair she decided that the new 
life was broadening her sympathies. It was a refreshment to 
body and soul to cast off her severe clothing and hunt for a 
pretty blouse. She could understand the relief of a servant who 
sheds all hint of “uniform” and becomes a distinct personality 
divorced from her occupation once the area steps are passed. 
She smiled at herself in the mirror, enjoying her preparations. 

It was a crisp autumn day following on a hard frost, sunny 
and bright, ideal weather for the young and energetic. 

“An afternoon for light furs,” Sabine decided. She rejected 
a serviceable skunk tie, remembering a certain collar of tail-less 
ermine and a soft cap of the same, toned down by a black wing. 

“It’s deceptively simple — like most good things. And the 
villagers will think it’s rabbit!” She settled it firmly on her 
head and drew out a dark curl. “Now, Dilly won’t scold me.” 

She brushed her serge coat and skirt and ran eagerly down to 
the hall, rejoicing in a sense of freedom. There she encountered 
Miss Vallance who looked her over from head to foot and averted 


82 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


her eyes indifferently. Sabine was passing her when she heard 
an exclamation: 

“How annoying! This hasn’t gone, though Mark promised — ” 
Miss Vallance broke off, biting her lip, her eyes on a letter 
propped against the card-tray. 

Sabine paused. 

“Can I leave it?” She saw that the letter was addressed to 
Mrs . Cathcart, Dene Place . “I can easily go that way.” 

Miss Vallance hesitated. She was not in the mood to solicit a 
favour. 

“You’re sure?” 

“Quite. I’ve nothing to do and I want a good walk. I know 
the road.” 

“Then, if you would be so kind?” Miss Vallance relaxed 
slightly. “It’s important, as I want an answer.” 

Sabine gathered up the letter. 

“Would you like it early, or will it do this evening on my 
return? I’m going to tea with my old nurse.” 

“That will do perfectly. Thank you.” Miss Vallance smiled 
— a frosty smile — and, as one who makes supreme amends but 
fully aware of condescension, she added, “What a pretty hat!” 

Sabine was inwardly amused. 

“It has seen good service.” Her tone was light. 

“That’s the best of ermine,” said Miss Vallance. She was not 
deceived as to its value. “Though it gets soiled so quickly. I 
can give you a good old recipe for cleaning it, if you’ll remind 
me.” 

Sabine accepted the olive branch. She wondered what had 
become of Mark. His stick and cap had gone from the stand. 

Her thoughts turned again to the letter as she made her way 
across the fields, the turf crackling beneath her shoes, the furrows 
of ploughed soil beyond silver-edged above the deep rusty-red of 
the earth. Black-hooded crows were stalking with their clumsy 
gait between the ridges or flopping down with a hoarse cry; here 
and there a party of gulls followed the land birds’ example, 
hungry from indifferent fishing. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


83 


She scanned the address on the note. 

“Cathcart?” She repeated the name with the memory of a 
winter in Rome and some pleasant neighbours in the flat beneath 
the one that the Fanes had taken. They had met at the house of 
a mutual friend and formed one of those swift and passing 
acquaintanceships which gather warmth from propinquity in a 
foreign land and end in a dwindling series of letters. “I know 
they lived in the West country. How odd if it should be the 
same! I should like to see Babs again.” 

She referred to Mrs. Cathcart’s daughter, her own junior by 
some years and an ardent admirer of Sabine’s, a pretty girl with 
a boy’s deep voice and chestnut hair that was always wild. 

“She was a pickle!” Sabine smiled, recalling an escapade in 
which Tommy, the girl’s young brother, had brought down upon 
their heads the voluble wrath of the civic guard. Sabine’s fluent 
Italian, aided by a generous tip, had saved the pair from dire 
results. 

She dived down into narrow lanes where the leaves lay thick 
upon the ground and the high banks showed vivid patches of 
blackberry trails like tongues of flame. For the voluptuous 
colour-scheme of Autumn had cast its spell on the land. 

Screened from the force of the wind, she dawdled, finding fresh 
treasures in the hedge at every step; hart’s- tongue and polipoddy 
ferns, tasselled and heavy with yellow seed, and along the pro- 
truding roots of trees the vivid green of moss and ivy. Lichen 
with tiny scarlet cups held dew for the fairies to sip, and she 
rescued one of their straying steeds, a stag-horned beetle dulled 
by the cold, obstinate in a rut of the road. Everywhere were 
bright-hued berries; the hard knobs of the briar or those, glisten- 
ing, of the maple, its leaves aglow, with, for a neighbour, the 
elder, wearily weighed down with its blue-black fruit like a 
widow’s weeds. At last she came to the rose-wreathed lodge 
guarding the entrance to Dene Place. It was wedged into a high 
wood, facing south, so well protected that a cluster of blooms still 
lingered, full blown and steeped with moisture, swaying above 
a latticed window. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


She walked slowly down the drive, the undergrowth deep on 
both sides, with the tang of burning wood in her nostrils from a 
distant bonfire, sharp, delicious. It, too, suggested autumn and 
breathed of gipsy wanderings that quickened the girl's imagina- 
tion. Strange places always moved her, with their hint of mys- 
tery, and when she came suddenly into a clearing and saw ahead 
a square white house, not beautiful, but suggesting solid comfort, 
she felt a sense of being cheated out of the castle of her dreams. 

“But it's very British," she decided. “It's like a bluff old 
country squire, too sure of his position to stoop to any modern 
pretension. His pride lies in the thick walls — and his heart in 
the stables!" 

A huge scraper, obviously used, and steps freely marked by 
footprints suggested other visitors. Inside the hall, as she was 
admitted, she noticed some military coats flung in a heap on an 
oak settle with various feminine wraps and furs. 

She explained her errand to the butler, an old man afflicted 
with deafness, who ignored her request to wait for an answer 
where she stood and proceeded to fling wide a door, murmuring 
wheezily: 

“This way, miss." 

A warm gust of music and laughter swept into Sabine’s face, 
with the sound of moving feet, shuffling over the parquet floor. 

Before her was a fine, old room, the rugs rolled back and the 
furniture thrust into odd corners. In a deep recess near the 
window a youth sat at a grand piano gaily thumping out a dance, 
whilst about a dozen young people, the men mostly in khaki, 
were two-stepping vigorously. 

One of the dancers turned her head, stared, and leaving her 
partner stranded, ran forwards, hands outstretched. 

“It’s Sabine Fane!" Her clear young voice had a throb of 
amazed welcome in it. She dodged a receding couple and slipped 
sideways into the doorway. “You dear thing! Where have you 
sprung from?" 

Sabine stooped to receive her kiss and drew the girl quickly 
into the hall. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


85 


“I’ve brought a note for your mother. It’s lovely to see you 
again, Babs. I wasn’t sure — but, of course, the name — ” She 
broke off, incoherent. “No, I won’t come in. I want to explain. 
Let’s sit down here.” She glanced at the littered settle. 

“Nonsense!” Babs seized her arm. “Mother!” she called. 

A tall, fair woman rose from a sofa in the window and skirted 
the gay crowd. 

“Why, Sabine! This is a surprise. Are you staying near 
here?” She looked almost as pleased as her daughter. 

Sabine began to explain, but Mrs. Cathcart interrupted: 

“With the Vallances? How strange! Mark never said a 
word ” 

“He wouldn’t. I’m not a visitor. I’m the housekeeper there.” 
Her eyes twinkled as she saw her hostess’ look of amazement. 

“You’re rotting!” Babs shook with laughter, so infectious that 
Sabine joined in. 

“I’m not. It’s the solemn truth. And this is my ‘day out’.” 
Gaily she went on with her story. 

A boy in khaki joined the pair; a mere stripling, in uniform, 
vividly young with his smooth face and ingenuous, wide-set 
eyes. 

“Hullo! it’s you — what luck! Come and dance?” 

She shook her head. 

His mother laid a hand on his arm. 

“One minute, Tommy, you’re interrupting.” She added in an 
aside to Sabine, “Tommy’s at a training camp for officers not far 
from here and has brought over some of his friends to celebrate 
Babs’ latest folly.” She smiled lovingly at her daughter. “Yes, 
the child’s got engaged to a neighbour of ours — young Mallison. 
I don’t approve, but nowadays youth has the last word.” 

“You do approve.” Babs was scornful. “She flirts with Roger 
on the sly, doesn’t she, Tommy?” 

That youth chuckled. 

“Caught out, old lady!” 

His mother led the general laughter. 

To Sabine it was like a breath of the old life. It warmed her 


86 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


blood. Unconsciously her eyes grew wistful. Mrs. Cathcart 
noticed this. Slipping a hand through the girl’s arm she insisted 
gently: 

“Come in, my dear. You can’t stay here, it’s too draughty.” 

“But I won’t dance — you understand?” Sabine moved for- 
ward reluctantly. She felt at a disadvantage between these old 
friends of hers and the rigid limits Miss Vallance set. A sudden 
brilliant idea struck her. “I’ll play for you, if you like. Do let 
me? I should enjoy it. I haven’t touched a piano for weeks.” 

Mrs Cathcart tactfully accepted the suggestion. 

“That would be very sweet of you — just one dance, then. 
Afterwards I want to hear all your news.” 

She steered the girl to the piano in an interval, amused to see 
the keen glances cast at her and her serene unconsciousness. 

“She’s not in the least altered,” she thought. “But what a 
sudden change of fortune! I suppose her father lived up to his 
income? They entertained so lavishly.” Sabine was drawing off 
her coat. “Music?” 

The girl shook her head. Her fingers ran down the keys in a 
series of soft arpeggios. 

“It’s an Erard!” Her eyes shone. 

Babs leaned over her shoulder. 

“I wish you’d sing something first. Do? Can’t you make her, 
mother?” 

Sabine hesitated. 

“I’m sure they’d much rather dance.” 

But Mrs. Cathcart thought otherwise. Tommy seconded the 
motion. 

“Give us the thing that goes like this.” He began to whistle 
melodiously. “Jolly nice — I remember it.” 

Presently through the high old room came the first notes of a 
beautiful voice, a rich contralto, finely trained. The youthful 
chatter died away. She sang like a professional, confident and 
absorbed, her eyes fixed on some distant object as though the 
words evoked a vision that veiled the audience from her sight. 
Only once did she lose for a second the careless thread of ac- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


87 


companiment, to retrieve the slip immediately by a well-placed 
chord, aware of the cause. She had realized the presence of Mark. 

He stood in an angle of the room, his head bent forward, lips 
parted, drinking in the golden notes, wonder and pity in his heart. 
For the first time he realized to the full the irony of her fate. To 
sing — like that — and to be bound down to the narrow round of 
trivial tasks under the iron rule of his aunt. It wasn’t “fair on 
any girl!” 

The last note died away, a fine-drawn silver thread that was cut 
imperceptibly by silence and a moment of immobility on the part 
of the singer ; no quiver in the rounded throat, the faint pride of 
the artist about her. 

Then, as the applause broke forth, with hardly a pause, Sabine 
swept into a French soldier’s song, with the beat of the drums, 
the distant bugles, and the growing excitement of marching feet 
— the gay and gallant lilt of the poilus. 

It set the whole room throbbing. Khaki shoulders began to 
jerk, slippers tapped the polished boards as the singer swung into 
the chorus. 

She repeated the opening chords. 

“'Now, all together! Chorus, please!” 

The untrained, youthful voices broke forth, shyly at first, then 
with the joyous abandon that grows from a sense of good com- 
pany and a leader who will never fail. For the rich contralto 
bore them forward, with chords that rattled out like drums. 
Sabine’s eyes danced with mischief; her hands leaped over the 
keys. A Fane to her finger-tips, she had forgotten everything but 
the knowledge of success — her old, unfaltering, social instinct. 

Tommy had caught up a ruler and was conducting with wild 
strokes. His voice broke on the last high note and the song ended 
in shouts of laughter. 

“Encore! Encore!” They crowded round her. But she 
waved them away. 

“The interval’s over! Now I’m going to do my duty.” Off 
she went with a popular waltz. 

After a few vain attempts to deter her, the shuffling recom- 


88 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


menced. Sabine drew a deep breath. Her thoughts swung back 
to Mark. She wondered a little how he would take it. He still 
stood against the wall, a silent, dominating figure, a head taller 
than most of the men, shabbily-dressed yet at ease, aloof but in 
his element. At the end of the waltz he came forward. The 
hostess was pleading with the player: 

“It’s Sibyl’s turn. Yes, I insist.” 

Another guest took Sabine’s place. 

“And now you must dance,” said Mrs. Cathcart. “It’s all 
nonsense what you say. Elizabeth wouldn’t mind. Why should 
she? It’s too absurd! Besides, in war-time — ” She broke off, 
conscious of Mark standing behind her. There came a nervous 
little pause. 

“Will you give me this one, Miss Fane?” His eyes met Sa- 
bine’s rather gravely. “I’m afraid I’m not a crack dancer, but if 
you’ll be merciful?” 

Mrs. Cathcart beamed approval. “Just like Mark,” she said 
to herself, prepared to back up his request, if Sabine still hesi- 
tated. 

But the man left no room for this. Before Sabine could find 
an excuse, his arm was round her. He swept her forward into the 
crowd, a nod in passing aimed at his hostess. It said plainly for 
her to read: “That for Aunt Beth! This is my affair.” 

She watched the pair for a moment, so superbly alive, the big 
fair man, supple from constant exercise, and the girl with her 
finished grace and bright, dark colouring. Into her motherly 
mind, unbidden, rose the thought: “How well they look together 
— a splendid couple.” Then she sighed. “Poor Mark! It’s a 
tragedy. And Sabine’s just the wife for him!” 

To the girl herself came no such fancy. Her partner had un- 
derrated his powers. She gave herself up once again to a captured 
moment of enjoyment. 

“If only Miss Vallance could see me now,” she thought with 
mischievous satisfaction, as she swayed to the will of the dancer. 
“The last thing I expected was to find his lordship here, and to 
be honoured in this fashion!” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 89 

The music stopped. Reluctantly they baited close to the en- 
trance. 

“This way,” suggested Mark. “I want, if I may, to show you 
something.” They passed out into the hall. “I’m quite sure 
you’re fond of pictures?” 

“I am. But how did you guess it?” she asked, 

He smiled. 

“You couldn’t sing like that without a love of the beautiful.” 
He spoke with a certain eagerness that reminded her of his boyish 
manner on the encounter in the gale. “It’s straight ahead — 
through that open door.” 

They entered the dining-room, oak-panelled with deep windows 
through which poured a mellow light, and presently halted be- 
neath a portrait. 

“This is a Lely.” He watched her face. “Do you see any 
likeness to Babs?” 

“Yes.” She stood back a little. “About the eyes. It’s very 
fine. Why, here’s another!” She moved on, interested and 
critical. 

They made the circuit of the room, linked by a taste in 
common, talking easily, with reference on Sabine’s part to well- 
known collections at home and abroad. Only once did she fail 
to recognize a famous artist. Mark supplied the painter’s name. 

“I ought to know it.” He smiled at her. “It came from my 
old home. We sold nearly all the pictures. Had to!” His voice 
was abrupt. “Mrs. Cathcart’s a sort of connection. Her great- 
grandmother was a Vallance. That’s the lady before you. She 
was considered a great beauty. Artificial, to my mind, but then 
I don’t care for sloping shoulders. Look at the ruby drop on her 
forehead. I’ve seen my mother wear that on a fine chain around 
her neck. It’s one of the things that I kept. I shall leave it to 
Babs when I depart.” He paused for a moment and glanced at 
the girl. “I’m glad you’ve found some friends here. The Cath- 
carts are dear people. It must be frightfully dull for you. I 
sometimes wonder how you stand it.” 

“I’m quite happy.” Her voice was grave. “Your aunt is 


90 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


very kind to me in many ways and I love the country. Besides 
I’m beginning to master my work. That’s the main thing. I 
hate failure.” 

“Yes.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “Whatever you do, 
you must do well. Sing, dance — check the linen!” He laughed 
with a rueful note. “The fact is, Miss Fane, if you want my 
humble opinion, you’re wasted at Liddingcombe.” 

It was said with a quiet courtesy that robbed it of offence. 

She coloured and answered quickly: 

“Not if I really like the task. And feel” — she risked it — 
“worth my pay! Doesn’t that sound brutal? I ought to have 
wrapped it up.” 

“I’m glad you didn’t.” He looked away. “Because I can set 
your mind at rest most distinctly on that point. You’re becoming 
indispensable to the old lady. She said so herself. That brings 
me to another matter that is worrying me — since we’re talking 
frankly. It can’t be always easy for you, especially after the old 
days. I can get away when I’m out of temper — bolt, as I did 
this morning! You can’t. That’s the pity. I wish I could ex- 
plain something which would make you understand.” He paused, 
frowning, and glanced at Sabine, then went on carefully, “It’s 
really health with Aunt Beth — of course she is getting on in 
life. Will you bear that in your mind? She has been a most 
wonderful woman. You know it’s her money that keeps things 
together. The property belongs to me, but without her I should 
have been on the rocks, absolutely — obliged to sell it. And she 
came to my rescue at a time when — oh, it’s too long a story.” 
He stared grimly into space and Sabine caught the muttered 
words: “My fault. From start to finish.” They hinted at some 
mystery. There was pain in his face. 

Before she could answer he opened the door. Music drifted 
across to them. 

“Are you going to give me another dance? Just one, before I 
go? I’ve got to take that letter back from Mrs. Cathcart — and 
make my peace!” 

Sabine hesitated. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


9i 


“Well, what is it?” He was smiling. He seemed to have shaken 
off his cares. His blue eyes studied her, a hint of mischief in their 
depths. “I don't dance well enough? I forgot your law of per- 
fection.” 

“No. I refuse to flatter you!” She laughed back. “I'd love 
to dance but I'm divided in my mind. I'm wondering — Would 
Miss Vallance like it?” 

“It would all depend upon her mood. As a Quaker — ” He 
tried to turn it off, shrugged his shoulders, then boyishly brought 
out his secret thought. “If it comes to that, why should she 
know?” 

“She will know, because I shall tell her.” 

He gave Sabine a straight glance full of silent admiration. 

“Will you leave the decision to me?” 

“Y — es.” It sounded a little uncertain. 

Mark laughed. 

“You doubt my judgment? In advance! That's prejudicial. 
My verdict is that since we've done it, we might as well do it 
again. If we're going to be scolded, let's deserve it!” 

They danced until the sun went down. 


CHAPTER VIII 


D ILLON’s old face was visible, peering wistfully up the 
road, above the palisade of plants, when Sabine arrived 
at Sea View. 

“I’m frightfully late!” She was breathless. “But I’ve such a 
lot to tell you, Dilly. I’ve been behaving shamelessly — dancing! 
What do you think of that?” She caught the old woman round 
the waist and waltzed her into the sitting-room. “One, two, 
three! Light as a feather — she’d pass for the Russian ballet! 
Down she goes!” She plopped Dillon on to the worn sofa. 

“Ah, now Miss Sabine, dear, remimber me age,” her nurse 
panted. 

The girl laughed. 

“Your age, Dilly? Let me see. Not much more than Cleo- 
patra’s when she started out to conquer. Which reminds me, I 
must talk to you. There’ll be a scandal in the village. Yes, I 
saw you, yesterday, flirting with that fisherman!” 

“I was buyin’ fish,” said Dillon stoutly. “And I’m misthrustful 
of a handcart. You niver know how long it’s been standing all 
day under the sun.” 

“This weather,” mocked Sabine. 

She drew off her fur and handed it unconsciously to the old 
servant who proceeded to shake it before the fire, then, capturing 
Sabine’s gloves, smoothed out the creased fingers. 

“And the best-looking fisherman in the place.” Sabine was in 
high spirits. “I shall tell Mrs. Clark to — ” She stopped, smiling. 
The landlady had entered the room, carrying the best tea-pot. 
“Gude evening, miss.” Her serious face relaxed, for she liked 
Sabine. “Yu lat ’un bide a bit,” she added for her lodger’s 


92 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


93 

guidance as she placed her burden on the tray. “ ’Tis Irish 
made.” 

Dillon nodded. The two women were good friends, though the 
older one at times felt baffled by the married one’s reserve. There 
was much that Dillon wished to know. Cautiously, by a round- 
about route, remembering Sabine’s warning, she would lead the 
conversation up to the Vallance household and the old life at 
Lidding St. Mary, with the present change in their fortunes. The 
result was discouraging. Mrs. Clark would draw in her horns; 
the Vallances were sacrosanct. For the West Country is very 
loyal. 

They settled down to the table. Into the old nurse’s mind 
came the memory of past scenes when she would share the simple 
meal with a small, starched Sabine, grasping her mug. She sighed. 
Yet it was sweet to feel that she again stood on guard, a homely 
figure in the background, but a consolation in dark hours. 

“I’ve had one tea already,” Sabine confessed gaily. “You’ll 
never guess who gave it me. Mrs. Cathcart! They live near 
here — that’s where I’ve been dancing. You remember Tommy 
and Babs, in Rome?” 

“I do that,” said Dillon drily. “And all the trouble about the 
fountain. Master Tommy was himself!” A chuckle escaped her. 
“But his mother was a rale high-up lady.” 

“Tommy’s a soldier now.” Sabine’s smile died away. “It’s 
rather dreadful, you know, Dilly, to see these boys in khaki, so 
young, with all their life before them, going out to face death. 
Of course it’s very splendid too, but one feels, somehow, that 
they’ve been cheated. Babs is engaged to a young lieutenant, 
Sir James Mallison’s only son, and they want to be married 
without delay. Mrs. Cathcart’s very brave, but it’s aging her — 
you can see it. Both her children snatched up by the war.” 

Dillon was full of sympathy. She thought “Miss Babs” far 
too young. 

“But I should do the same,” said Sabine. “If I really loved a 
man and he was off to the Front, I should marry him first if he 
wanted me.” 


94 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“ And if he didn’t come back, at all?” 

“I’d have given him all I could,” said Sabine. “I couldn’t cheat 
him out of that — not the brief moment of happiness.” A 
thoughtful light was in her eyes. 

Dillon looked at her anxiously. Sabine smiled, reading her 
thoughts. 

“No, there isn’t a man, you old goose! Not even a flirtation. 
Unless — ” She dimpled. “Listen, Dilly. I’ve been dancing all 
the afternoon with the one and only nephew! Do you think I 
shall get a month’s notice?” 

The wrinkled face changed swiftly. 

“ ’Dade an’ I couldn’t say, Miss Sabine. It depends on the 
owld lady. If he’s after telling her, she mightn’t be too well 
pleased with you.” But Dillon was inwardly delighted. “And 
would he be dancing well?” she asked. 

“Yes. I was quite surprised.” 

Sabine launched forth on the recital of the Cathcart’s merry 
party. She went on to talk of Mark and his schemes for the 
village. How he had started a boat-building yard, now closed 
down for lack of labour, and a boys’ club where, on Saturdays, 
there were primitive entertainments. 

“They dance too. Mark thinks that the main reason why all 
the young men flock now to the towns is that their life in the 
country is so desperately dull. There’s no proper meeting-place 
for the girls and boys either; this leads to mischief on the sly. If 
you come to think of it, he’s perfectly right. There isn’t an 
outlet for natural high spirits. The rector is his great ally — a 
dear old man, from all accounts. Mark teaches the boys boxing. 
Also carpentering. They make really useful things, pay a small 
price for materials, then sell them at a profit. He has designed 
a garden chair and has got an order for these in town. But, of 
course, this war has stopped everything. Boys are taking the 
place of men and they’ve no time for outside work.” 

“I’ve heard of the club,” Dillon remarked. “There’s a Miss 
Gull — ” 

Sabine broke in: 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


95 

“There is! You’re quite right, Dilly. She’s an indisputable 
fact.” 

“Miss Gull,” Dillon proceeded slowly, “was wanting the loan 
of the place. To spake in — something to do with recruitin’. 
But Mr. Vallance was sayin’ no, and there was high words be- 
tween them. An’ then, she gives him a white feather — and him 
with a face like a stone!” Her eyes narrowed, watching the girl. 

Sabine looked disgusted. 

“She would. It’s exactly like her.” She did not attempt to 
explain. 

Dillon drew her own conclusions. They were wholly flattering 
to Mark. She smiled reminiscently. 

“Pratt’s boy, the red-haired one, had a word to say about it — 
he was standing by when it happened — and now it’s all over the 
village. A rude joke that I couldn’t tell you, Miss Sabine, about 
the ways of gulls — thim that’s moultin’.” Dillon chuckled. 
Pratt’s boy was the village wit. “He’s well liked, is Mr. Mark.” 
She left it at that, well-satisfied, and proceeded to clear the table, 
piling the cups and plates on the tray. “I’ll carry this out, if 
you’ll excuse it. Mrs. Clark is busy to-day and late with her 
ironing. She’s been sitting up over some new flannel shirts for 
her husband agin the cowld weather.” 

The conversation veered round, as usual, to shared memories 
of bygone times. It was dark when Sabine, reluctantly, rose to 
go, carrying a parcel that Dillon had proudly prepared, full of 
stockings newly darned, and daintily got-up muslin collars. 

“And bring me some more, Miss Sabine, dear,” were her parting 
words on the threshold. “Will you see to find your way home? 
I could come with you as far as the door.” 

But the girl would not hear of it. 

“I’ll take the upper road,” she said. “There’s not so much 
traffic there! Go back to the fire. It’s freezing hard.” She 
drew up her fur round her throat. 

But Dillon lingered, watching her progress down the dim 
village street where all lights were strictly forbidden and even 


q6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the Hunted Stag, once starry in the darkness, was now muffled 
behind dark blinds. 

Outside its hospitable door, however, stood a landau and pair 
of bays. The landlord was chatting to the coachman, an empty 
pint-pot in his hand. The thin footman, apparently, had gone 
inside for his refreshment, but Sabine recognized the carriage. 

As she went past she caught a scrap of the coachman’s con- 
versation: 

“And she says to me — ” The voice was lowered for the land- 
lord’s ear alone. The speech ended in a guffaw. 

Some bon mot of Lady Gull’s Sabine privately concluded. 

She turned up the dim lane that led to the rectory, the church 
looming on her left with its squat, ivy-covered tower faintly out- 
lined against the sky. Growing accustomed to the darkness, her 
eyes discerned a stout figure planted in front of the rectory gate 
and muffled in luxurious furs. With its head turning from side 
to side to scan the deserted road, it reminded Sabine of a tortoise. 
She glanced sideways as she passed. 

Lady Gull peered at her, with the distress of the short-sighted. 
Sabine guessed her predicament and yielded to a kindly impulse. 

“Are you looking for your carriage? If so, it’s just round the 
corner.” 

“Ah!” The stout lady fussed. “I thought so!” It was evident 
that she guessed the cause of the delay. “Thank you.” She 
blinked at the girl, then suddenly recognized her. “Why, it’s 
you!” She drew back, with her haughtiest expression. Her an- 
noyance found vent in speech. “I hear you’re at the Vallancesf 
Henrietta told me about it. I think you might have said, that 
day I gave you a lift in the carriage, where you were going to. 
It shows how careful one ought to be.” She tossed back her 
head aggressively and nearly dislodged the smart hat that was 
fenced about with purple dahlias. 

“To match the rug,” thought Sabine. Quietly she explained 
the circumstances of the case. 

Lady Gull listened shrewdly. It became a battle between her 
pride and her rising curiosity. In the end the latter prevailed. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


97 


“ I see. Still you might have told me when I mentioned the 
Vallances’ name. But we'll let that pass. Are you ’appy there?" 

“Quite.” Sabine was on the defensive. 

Lady Gull smoothed the fur of her imposing sable muff, search- 
ing some fresh line of attack. She had always been inquisitive 
about the family she had succeeded and whom she cordially 
disliked. 

“I suppose you don’t see much of them?” she suggested pon- 
derously. “I hear the aunt is very eccentric — has strange ideas 
about the war?” 

Sabine made no response but Lady Gull persevered. 

“Of course he ought to go to the Front. I’ve three nephews 
who’ve joined up, so I know well what I’m talking about, and 
one of them’s older than Mr. Vallance. I’d be ashamed if I was 
him, hiding at home in such a crisis. England needs every many 
She brought it out with the triumph of an original call to arms. 

Sabine nodded but glanced markedly up the road. Lady Gull, 
guessing the girl’s intention, laid a hand on her arm. She stooped 
now to friendliness. 

“Well, I’m glad to ’ear you’re ’appy. That’s the great thing, 
isn’t it, wherever our lines are cast? Of course it must be a come- 
down for you.” There was kindly patronage in her voice with an 
utter ignorance of offence. “One can see you’ve been used to 
better things, as I was telling Henrietta, and if you like to drop 
in one day and ’ave a quiet chat with me I’ll be pleased to see 
you, so don’t forget. I mean it.” She spoke impressively, warmed 
by a sense of her condescension. “But not this week.” She 
seemed to remember her importance suddenly and relaxed the 
grasp of the fat hand in its tight suede glove. “I daresay you’ve 
’card that we’re expecting our Member to stay with us? There’s 
to be a recruiting meeting at Lidding Junction and he’s to speak. 
So Sir Joshua has offered to put him up. We’re asking the people 
round to meet him.” 

Pride oozed out of the words. Sabine smiled in her sleeve. 
It was, indeed, a great occasion. She thanked Lady Gull for her 
invitation, without accepting it, and added: 


9 8 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“I’ve not much time to myself.” 

“No.” Lady Gull nodded. “I expect Miss Vallance keeps you 
busy! Economical, isn’t she? Yve ’eard of her measuring out 
the rice and calling in the candle-ends!” She gave a fat, 
scornful laugh. “Not that I blame ’er for being careful under the 
circumstances , but I ’ope she gives you enough to eat. ’Andsome 
is as ’andsome does. That’s always been my motter.” 

To Sabine’s relief the sound of wheels approaching them fell 
upon her ears. 

“Here comes your carriage,” she suggested. 

“Time too!” retorted the aggrieved owner. “I only sent him 
with a wire to the post office whilst I was ’ere and I wasn’t going 
to walk back again all along that dark drive. But you can’t 
depend on servants now, whatever you pay them! They’re all 
alike.” She hesitated, then held out her hand. Sabine could see 
that it cost her an effort. “Well, come and see me one evening, 
m’dear, when the old lady lets you out. I daresay you’ll ’ave a 
lot to tell me!” 

Sabine thankfully escaped. 

She quickened her pace up the lane. In a few minutes the 
landau passed her with the vast outline of Lady Gull, screened 
by the drawn-up hood in front, and smothered under a bear-skin 
rug, a picture of opulence. 

Sudden anger seized the girl. By what right did such a 
woman, ignorant and malicious, supplant the old landed gentry? 
She was not a true democrat. She had no sympathy with those 
who led humble lives on her estate, no knowledge of country 
needs and no real charity. Intolerant and blinded by a sense of 
her new position, which relied alone on her banking account, she 
presented a latter-day problem: the rise of a class that in its time 
would prove more tyrannical than the one it superseded. 

Sabine had heard an unpleasant story connected with Lady 
Gull’s household; the case of a young housemaid, turned out at 
an hour’s notice in dire disgrace to tramp, homeless, to Lidding 
Junction and succumb to the effect of a miscarriage. 

Miss Vallance, with all her strict views on morality, would 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


99 


never have consented to this, nor have imagined for a moment 
that the catastrophe could reflect scandal upon her house. She 
could never have stooped, like Henrietta, to insult any man by 
offering him a white feather, whatever she thought of his conduct. 
There was a defiant attitude about the type that the Gulls em- 
bodied, a deliberate intention in the way they paid back their old 
grudge against the class which they aped. They lacked some 
virtue, to be found not only in the old gentry but in the yeoman 
rank and file that is the backbone of England: a kindly justice 
based on knowledge gained through succeeding generations and 
far above the claims of money. 

“Thank Heaven I’m not the housekeeper at Lidding St. Mary,” 
Sabine decided. “I wouldn’t serve Lady Gull for untold wealth! 
I really believe that Henrietta is preferable.” She thought it over 
for a moment. “No, there’s little to choose between them. The 
daughter is more practical, but she looks upon the villagers as 
subjects for experiment — an offensive form of philanthropy. 
And how they resent it! To have a girl expounding her untried 
theories on rearing babies and so forth, prying into the private 
life of women who work from morning to night in a struggle 
against poverty, and yet, in the main, keep clean and cheerful. 
No wonder they slam the doors in her face! Mark’s method is 
the best. To bring an element of amusement and interest into 
their workaday lives. He doesn’t have Sir Joshua’s public satis- 
faction in a handsome cheque to the local charities, but it costs 
him all he can afford and entails a large amount of labour. He 
would shrink from Henrietta’s plan of opening wide every window 
in the cottages she visits, whether the inmates like it or not, but 
he’d sit up a whole night with a man on the verge of delirium 
tremens; and the sane soul of the people recognizes the difference. 
It’s love, not patronage, and it calls for no subservience. 
I’m beginning to understand much that has hitherto been a 
puzzle. Charity that does not include a respect for the individual 
becomes largely a selfish impulse and the poor are right in 
despising it.” 

Her philosophy was cut short by a figure, emerging from the 


ICO 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


gate leading into the stable yard of the Vallances’ house, that 
breathlessly hailed her, 

“Mis s Fane! Is that you?” Johnson was peering through the 
darkness, a black shawl thrown over her head and minus her 
apron. Her face was scared. “I was just about to try and find 
you, as Cook thought you were in the village.” 

“Is anything wrong?” Sabine was seized by a premonition of 
disaster. 

“It’s Miss Vallance. The doctor’s here, upstairs with her now, 
miss. Mr. Mark sent Steve for him. Such a time as we’ve all 
had! As that Ellen says, one minute we’re here and the next 
we’re cut down!” There was an ominous catch in her breath. 

“That may be true of old people, but hardly so at your age.” 
Sabine spoke soothingly, for the girl sounded hysterical. “I’ll 
come in the back way and you shall tell me quietly , as we go 
along, what has happened.” 

Mastering her impatience — for Johnson was prone to digres- 
sions and tearful — Sabine elicited the facts. 

Miss Vallance, without warning, had “fallen down in a fit.” 
This was the servants’ diagnosis. 

Johnson, putting the last touches to the dinner table, had heard 
the crash and had hurried up to find her mistress stretched upon 
the floor, unconscious. 

“Her poor face all twisted,” the girl added pitifully, “and Mr. 
Mark in a dreadful way. To think that when she complained of 
the silver I answered her back!” This seemed the climax. John- 
son gave a muffled sob. 

Sabine, in the sudden light of the house, as she entered, turned, 
her own face dazed, and laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. 

“That doesn’t matter. She’d understand. What you’ve got to 
do is to help now. It’s no good giving way, is it, Cook?” She 
appealed to that worthy who bustled out from the warm kitchen. 
There was comfort in her buxom presence. “It mayn’t be as 
serious as we think.” She tried to hide her own misgivings. 

“While there’s life, there’s ’ope,” said the cook. She looked at 
Johnson severely. “Best get yer cap and apron h’on and be ready 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


ioi 


against the doctor's going. That Ellen upstairs 'as got twice 
your sense and is waiting in case they wants 'ot water. And me 
keeping the dinner warm if Mr. Mark changes 'is mind. Though 
the souffles spoilt!" She drew a sigh from the depths of her 
capacious bosom. “I could cry meself," she told Sabine, “but 
it ain't the proper moment for it." 

“That's right, Cook." Sabine approved her attitude of com- 
mon sense. 

She ran up the back stairs and gained her room, glad of a 
quiet moment for thought, as she changed into her morning dress 
ready for all emergencies. It must have been a stroke, she con- 
cluded. The old lady had looked ill after her passage of arms at 
lunch. Poor Mark! He would certainly blame himself for having 
upset her. Sabine wished she had stayed at home. 

And this afternoon she had been dancing! With Mark. She 
thrust the thought aside. It was no one’s fault — just life; 
laughter and youth unconsciously rubbing merry shoulders with 
death. 

If Miss Vallance died? Could Sabine stay, alone, as house- 
keeper to Mark? 

“Why not?" she asked herself. “Some one must manage his 
house for him. I'm my own mistress in every way, and this war 
Is breaking down convention. Of course Mark might not wish it, 
but if he did I could trust him." 

An odd sense of thankfulness succeeded this swift decision. 
The glance she cast round the shabby room, as she left it, was 
almost tender. 

“I've taken root," she decided, aware of a sudden love for the 
place. “It would need a tug to pull me up. I'm as settled as a 
dandelion!" 

With the words a memory of her first meeting with Miss 
Vallance in her blue sunbonnet, spud in hand, flashed across her. 

How tragic it was! She beat down her rising emotion, setting 
her teeth. She would need all her wits to cope with the practical 
duties of the moment. Yet it seemed to her that the Valiances 
were shadowed by some inexorable fate that hastened the end of 


102 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the old regime, already tottering in the balance. The whole house 
was symptomatic, not of the future, but the past. Meanwhile 
the world moved on. 

“That Ellen” was leaning stolidly against the table on the 
landing. From the room beyond came a sound of voices, sub- 
dued yet obviously male. With a whispered word to the girl in 
passing, Sabine went down into the hall. She wanted to intercept 
the doctor, if possible, on his way out. 

She had not very long to wait. She heard Mark’s voice above 
asking for some further detail of the illness. Then his abrupt, 
“I must go back. Can you find your way downstairs?” and the 
doctor’s equally absent, “Of course.” 

He turned the corner warily, a thickset man, middle-aged, with 
a lined face and kindly eyes. Sabine liked the look of him. 

She explained her position in the household and asked for news 
of Miss Vallance. 

There was no change, he informed her. He had to go on to 
another patient but would return at ten o’clock. 

“A case of waiting. She’s still unconscious. No, there’s 
nothing to be done. Her left side is paralysed. If she recovers — 
partially — I’m afraid the brain will be affected. I’m going to 
try and get a nurse but they’re so scarce nowadays” — he frowned 
thoughtfully at Sabine — “and of course it will take some time. 
Can you sit up with her to-night? In any case Mr. Vallance 
should have somebody at hand.” 

“I will. I’m quite accustomed to illness.” 

He nodded his head, satisfied, the subconscious part of his 
mind taking pleasure in her appearance, her air of youth and 
perfect health. 

“I should like to make a suggestion, though,” Sabine went on 
eagerly. “My old nurse is staying here — quite near, in the 
village. She’s not a trained nurse but most capable. She did 
nearly all the day work in my father’s last illness. Would she be 
of use now until you can find some one better? The servants 
here are very willing but a little scared.” She smiled gravely. 
“Dillon would cheer them up.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


103 

“I see. It sounds a good notion ” The doctor returned her 
clear glance. “You’re not nervous, anyhow?” 

“No.” It was said with assurance. 

“Mark is.” He had lowered his voice. He did not seem 
aware of his slip. He was treating the girl as if she were a 
member of the family. Sabine corrected the mistake. 

“Mr. Vallance is not accustomed to illness, perhaps,” she sug- 
gested. “I will see about getting Dillon here without delay, since 
you think it wise.” 

“I do.” The doctor glanced at his watch. “I should rather like 
to see her. You could take the car and bring her back if you 
think she’d come at once.” 

Sabine’s reply was to reach up to the hall stand for the first 
coat. It happened to be one of Mark’s. She slipped it on and 
turned up the collar. 

“Thanks very much. That will save time. There’s a fire in 
the dining-room.” 

But he lingered to open the front door. A growing feeling of 
admiration mixed with curiosity prompted him to see her out. 
He had heard of the new housekeeper on a former visit to Miss 
Vallance, but this girl did not fit into the picture he had formed 
in his mind. 

“Don’t you want a hat?” His eyes were twinkling. 

Sabine gathered up the skirts of the coat that were trailing on 
the ground and smiled back over her shoulder. 

“I’ll risk the shock to the village!” 

She was off, down the paved path. Through the still night air 
he heard her give her orders serenely to the chauffeur. It might 
have been her own car! 

The doctor smiled as he closed the door. 

“A character! But her pretty head is screwed on the right 
way. She’s a lady too — a funny position.” He retreated to 
the welcome glow of the fire, straddling before it, his back turned 
to the cheerful blaze, his mind recurring to his patient. “A 
good thing if she went, poor woman — both for herself and all 
concerned. Especially Mark. He’d be off to the war. That boy 


104 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


has been through a cruel time. I really believe there must be 
something in that old curse on the family which my father used 
to talk about. Always the eldest son too.” 

He took off his glasses and gave them a rub, amused by his 
own folly. For with the scorn of the scientist was blent a faint, 
lingering superstition. 


CHAPTER IX 


D ILLON needed no persuasion. To be under the same roof 
as her darling filled the old woman’s soul with joy. 

It was wonderful how she managed Mark, even from 
their first meeting, treating him with a happy blend of profound 
respect and motherly pity; at one moment the capable nurse, at 
another wheedling him into submission with her soft Irish tongue. 
She brought with her the comforting sense of age and slowly 
acquired wisdom that comes from knowledge at first hand of the 
mysteries of birth and death. A shadow lifted from Mark’s 
spirit when Dillon, after one sharp look at the rigid face on the 
pillow, announced that there was “no death on it” and that Miss 
Vallance would recover. She did not add her inward conviction 
that life might prove the harder trial. Her mission was to soothe 
and comfort. 

She persuaded Mark to go downstairs to the dining-room be- 
neath. One tap on the floor of the patient’s room could summon 
him in case of a change. 

As she tidied up the littered clothes with the method of her 
calling, her brain was busy with many problems concerning the 
two young people. Sorrow would bring them together, she 
thought, exulting in her simple heart. She sent an earnest prayer 
to the Saints to avert the supreme catastrophe of the old lady’s 
death. Her design was that Miss Vallance should live, incapable 
of interference, but a link between Mark and Sabine, thrown into 
closer companionship and sharing daily their hopes and fears. 
Death could only separate them. She did not consider for a 
moment, as Sabine had done, the alternative of the girl remaining 
at her post as housekeeper to the lonely man. Miss Vallance 

105 


106 THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 

must live — that was evident — and if nursing could save her 
Dillon would do it! 

As she turned in the toes of the woollen stockings and rolled 
them into a neat ball, to be placed with the rest of the invalid’s 
clothes in a drawer that Sabine had prepared, Dillon opened her 
campaign: 

“He’s taking it hard, is Mr. Vallance,” she said to the girl 
watching her. “With no dinner, I’ll be bound. Don’t you think, 
Miss Sabine, dear, a few sandwiches might timpt him?” 

“I could try.” Sabine awoke to her duties. “I could go down 
now to Cook if you think you’d be all right alone?” 

“It’s better,” said Dillon sagely. “I niver belave in more than 
one person in a sickroom. It ates up the fresh air.” 

“But I’m going to sit up with you to-night.” Sabine looked 
obstinate. 

“Not in here.” Dillon was firm. “I could fetch you if there 
was anny need. It’s the bed would be best for you.” She 
paused to glance across at the patient. “And now, there’s that 
poor gintleman with no food to build him up. I should take it in 
meself, dearie. He’d be more likely to ate, then.” 

She watched Sabine leave the room and smiled at her own 
duplicity. She realized to the full her use in the days to come as 
counsellor and inconspicuous chaperon. 

Sabine, still apprehensive of Johnson, who had passed from the 
stage of tears to that of ceaseless conversation, and aware that the 
servants were at supper, secretly saw to the sandwiches and car- 
ried in the dainty tray. 

Mark was sitting over the fire, an empty pipe in his hand, 
forgetful of his intention to smoke, brooding, his eyes fixed on 
the coals. He looked up with a start and instinctively rose to 
his feet. 

“What’s that? Oh, thanks. I don’t think — ” 

“Yes, you will.” Her voice coaxed. She placed her burden on 
a small table beside his arm-chair. “You’ve had no dinner and by 
and by you’ll regret it if you don’t eat.” She smiled at him. “I 
cut them myself.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


107 


With a palpable effort he smiled back. 

“That's- very good of you, Miss Fane.” A sudden thought 
seemed to strike him. “What about your own supper?” 

His solicitude touched the girl. 

“Cook is looking after me.” She spoke rather evasively, con- 
scious of a sudden hunger. 

Mark drew forward the other arm-chair. 

“I won’t eat these unless you’ll share them. I don’t believe in 
that mythical meal. Please?” His blue eyes were wistful. She 
guessed his profound loneliness. 

“Is that a bargain? Then I agree.” She sat down facing him, 
in the glow of the fire-light. 

He moved across to the larger table and poured her out a glass 
of wine. In handing it his fingers shook and it overflowed. 

“I’m so sorry.” He looked ashamed. “Has it gone on your 
dress?” 

“It won’t hurt if it has. Such an ancient frock!” She was 
going to refuse the wine, but the sight of his nervous distress 
caused her to change her mind. “By the way, I borrowed your 
coat just now to go round and fetch Dilly. The doctor was in a 
hurry and I didn’t want to go up for my own. You don’t mind?” 

“Of course not.” Mechanically he took up a sandwich and 
swallowed a mouthful. “You’ve been so good — the greatest help. 
And your old nurse too. To come like that at a moment’s notice! 
I’m very grateful.” 

He lifted his tumbler with whiskey in it to add soda from the 
siphon. It proved to be a malignant one, resisting pressure to 
burst forth suddenly in a wild stream that deluged his hand and 
cuff. 

“Damn!” said the overwrought Mark. “I beg your pardon — 
I meant — ” 

“What you said!” She nodded. “I echoed it.” 

Catching up a table napkin she tried to repair the damage. 
Mark, like a child, extended his arm, then took the impromptu 
duster from her. “I don’t know what I’m doing — letting you 
wait on me like this! But you understand, don’t you?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


108 

“I do.” Her voice was full of pity. “It must have been a 
dreadful shock. I blame myself for going out. I noticed she was 
looking ill.” 

“But that’s absurd,” said Mark quickly. “It was my fault, 
I upset her. Losing my temper like that, at lunch. I didn’t 
know she had taken it to heart so much until I returned. She 
thought I meant what I said.” There was misery in his face. 

“But you explained,” said Sabine gently. 

Mark nodded. 

“Too late. The mischief was done.” 

“You couldn’t tell.” She was quick to defend him, conscious 
of all he had endured of late from the irritable old lady. 

He turned sideways in his chair, shading his eyes with his hand 
like a sick creature that hides away from the light. 

“I could ” His voice sounded hollow. 

Sabine wondered, but said no more. After a minute he went on, 
feeling the strain of his burden relax in the flood of confession. 

“It can’t be kept a secret now. She’s had one attack before — 
a slight one — so I knew. The servants thought it a fainting fit. 
That’s what I meant when I alluded this afternoon to her health. 
But she wouldn’t let me tell you outright. She has a horror of 
being pitied.” He paused. “It’s difficult to explain. She has 
always been such a capable woman, independent and proud to a 
fault. She could not bear the idea of anyone doubting her mental 
powers. A stroke always suggests that. All the same, she rec- 
ognized that, pltysically, she was failing. The doctor ordered 
rest and quiet and warned her that any worry or shock might be 
dangerous. So we advertised for a housekeeper, to relieve her of 
the heavier duties. Everything seemed going well — thanks to 
you — and now — ” He stopped with a gesture of hopelessness. 

Sabine’s pity overflowed at the sight of the big man’s distress. 
She knew he w r as condemning himself. She forgot their relative 
positions. Impulsively she leaned forward and laid a friendly 
hand on his arm. 

“You mustn’t take it like that. Do remember the other side — 
all your care and your patience. Why, you’ve been more than 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


109 


a son to her! And yet you go blaming yourself for one word 
spoken in anger. It's not just. She wouldn’t like it.” Her 
words came forth in a quick rush. “I don’t believe for a moment 
that you were the cause of this attack. It might have come any 
day during the past week. She wouldn't rest — no one could make 
her! Even the servants noticed it.” 

Mark stirred under the speech. In his physical depression he 
could feel the girl’s vitality, like a health-giving stream invading 
him, backed by the power of her will. For her whole soul was 
bent on comfort. Unconsciously, with a blind action, he placed 
his hand over the one, slender yet strong, with the signet ring 
that bore the crest of the Fanes. Neither of them noticed it. 

“Well?” Sabine’s dark eyes sought his face anxiously. The 
man, in his grief, reminded her of a child, amazed at life’s in- 
justice. 

“No,” said Mark suddenly. “You’re wrong. From first to 
last, it’s been my fault. I was the cause of the earlier seizure. 
I had made up my mind to enlist. I told her so, and she col- 
lapsed. Now , do you understand?” 

“Oh!” She gave a horrified gasp. 

In a flash everything was clear. Many half-forgotten speeches 
rose in her mind, together with the strange subservience of the 
man, the unchallenged rule of the aunt. It wiped away her lin- 
gering doubts of his courage. For Mark had chosen the harder 
task of resisting his strong desire to serve his country at this 
crisis, outwardly indifferent to the opinions of his neighbours, 
open to insult, guarding the secret of the old lady’s state of 
health, and denied even this last excuse in defence of his man- 
hood. Sabine felt that she hated Miss Vallance. Bigoted and 
tyrannical, she had won. But at what a price! 

“It’s dreadful!” The cry broke from her. Her grip tightened 
on his arm. 

Mark slowly raised his head. 

“You see?” His voice was very weary. 

She nodded back, too moved to speak. For a moment they 
gazed at one another wonderingly, the material veil torn asunder, 


no 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


two lonely souls meeting in a sympathy that was based on a 
knowledge of human weakness. And in that moment love was 
born. 

It leaped forth from the man’s blue eyes, wistful then ardent, 
and lit a flame that strengthened, fearless, in the girl’s, full of 
the passion that had never been lacking in any of the Fanes. So 
certain was the revelation, so strong the attraction that swept 
them together that it needed no confirming words. It was more 
binding than any embrace. 

Then, like a sword thrust between them, came a sharp tap on 
the floor above, as though the spirit of the woman who had lived 
to rule, in the hour of death asserted the old supremacy. 

Sabine recovered her senses first. 

“Dilly!” She tore her hand away from where it lay clasped by 
Mark’s and was off like a startled wild creature, aware of the 
quick throbs of her heart; of fear, joy, remorse and rebellion that 
swept in waves over her. 

Mark followed close on her heels. She could hear his laboured 
breathing. He passed her as they reached the landing. 

Dillon stood there, apologetic, a finger pressed to her lips. 

“H’sh! ’Tis nothing. It’s vexed I am that I startled your 
honour. There’s no change. I was after dusting the dressing- 
table and a spool of cotton wint slattering down on to the boards.” 

Mark gave vent to an odd sound midway between anger and 
laughter. The old figure in the doorway looked so palpably 
ashamed. 

Dillon’s watchful grey eyes passed from the man’s to Sabine’s 
face, noting the traces of excitement and a certain strain, un- 
warranted now she had put their fears to rest. 

“I’ll be going back,” she said slowly. “Askin’ your pardon for 
the fright.” 

Mark pulled himself in hand. 

“That doesn’t matter,” he told her kindly. “Have you every- 
thing you want?” 

“Yes, sir. Ellen’s brought the kettle up and the coals. The 
doctor’ll be cornin’ agin soon.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


iii 


“So he will.” Mark nodded and, without another glance at 
Sabine, went slowly down the stairs. 

Dillon waited, unaware apparently of the girl’s indecision as 
her eyes followed the man’s progress. His fair head with its 
short crisp hair turned the corner. Only then did Sabine awake 
from her dream. 

“Shall I come in and sit with you, Dilly?” 

“No, dearie. I’m better alone. You go and rest a bit. I’ll be 
fetchin’ you when the doctor’s here.” 

“Very well.” She was strangely docile. She made her way 
down the passage, still obsessed by Mark’s presence and the 
tumult he had roused in her. The lamp, lighted on the table, 
shone on her father’s photograph. She bent down close to it. 

“You’d understand.” Her hands went up to press the base of 
her full throat. “It’s here,” she whispered, her eyes bewildered. 
“I never dreamed I could feel like that.” 

Something in the smiling portrait answered back with a touch 
of triumph that quickened the girl’s faltering courage. She knew 
that her fate was decided. For good or evil, she loved Mark. 
Miss Vallance should never come between them. He was hers 
by right of that perilous minute which had left her powerless 
yet exultant, conscious of worlds unexplored. 

She moved across to the window and opened it wide, unaware 
of the cold sting of the night air, breathing it in with enjoyment 
like a draught of iced wine. It helped to still the fire that raced 
through her strong young body, calming her. She could hear 
the far-off song of the waves breaking evenly on the beach and the 
reluctant backward flow that drew the loose shingle with it. It 
seemed to tug at her heart. She braced herself, resisting it with 
a sudden sense of battle. 

The air was sweet with the wild smell of the salt rocks, and it 
revived, with the poignancy of remembered scents, her experiences 
on the first night spent in the Vallances’ old house. But the 
savour of the stocks was lacking. They had passed with the 
frail tobacco flowers, swept up by the skirts of summer, living 
their short hour of romance. 


112 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


For Sabine life was more merciful. She smiled at the fancy. 
Essentially modern, she faced love without shame, admitting it, 
and passed on to the region of analysis. Had her old attitude to 
Mark, the irritation bred in her by his unconscious arrogance been 
a symptom of secret fear, knowing the virile power of the man, 
the attraction he might have for her? She tried to recall her 
first impression. Mark, standing in the doorway — that portal of 
the Enchanted Garden — in his old blue jersey stained by salt 
which revealed the splendid set of his shoulders and the sunburnt 
column of his throat, his head flung back, blue eyes puzzled, the 
silvery codlings strung together, swinging from his well-shaped 
hand. A quaint picture, yet it held a new significance for her 
now: the fisherman of the fairy story, disguised, yet every inch 
a king. 

And how had she affected him? She remembered his first re- 
serve, his suspicion of her mockery, his abrupt and dominating 
speech at variance with his acts of kindness. Had he, too, feared 
the spell of closer acquaintanceship? The theory was interesting. 

But on one point she held no doubts: his feelings at the present 
moment. Instinct, backed by experience — for two men had 
loved her dearly yet roused no answering touch of passion — filled 
her with supreme conviction. Mark was hers, if she wished it. 

“And I do!” She flung the words at the night. Back came 
the drag of the ebbing tide drawing her out to fresh adventure. 

But it brought with it a hint of peril, of unseen shoals and 
inimical currents. It would not be a placid voyage ending in 
the harbour of marriage. If Fate willed her recovery, Miss Val- 
lance would prove no willing pilot, and Mark himself might hesi- 
tate, bound to the frail old lady’s will. 

The thought was a sting to Sabine’s pride. She would never 
sit down, docile, to wait for a procrastinating lover. The diffi- 
culties of the position added a spur to the great adventure. Surely 
Mark would feel the same? 

Yet something in the man’s strong face as he turned away 
from his aunt’s door and passed, silent, down the stairs recurred 
to her now with a touch of fear. Was it only the remorse that 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


had become a daily factor in his dealings with Miss Vallance and 
the memory, for a moment obscured by a stronger passion, of that 
form, still and death-like, lying there, that had sent him away 
without one glance? 

She shivered, suddenly aware of the icy wind pouring in. 
Abruptly she shut down the window. It was foolish to meet 
trouble half-way, yet she was conscious of a reaction. 

With a nervous desire to conquer the mood that was threaten- 
ing to master her, she paused in front of her shelf of books and 
chose at random a volume of verse, obeying the habit of many 
years. Would the accustomed sedative work? She felt curious, 
wondering how great a change had been wrought in her, rebelling 
against the hidden forces, physical and spiritual, that in so short 
a space of time had confounded her youthful theories. 

She sat down close to the lamp and opened the book that was 
entitled A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems , translated by 
Arthur Waley. Her elbows propped on the table, a hand support- 
ing her bent cheek, she tried to rivet her attention on an “epi- 
gram” by one Wu-ti, who had reigned as Poet-Emperor some 
centuries before Christ. 

Autumn wind rises: white clouds fly . 

Grass and trees wither; geese go south. 

Orchids all in bloom: chrysanthemums smell sweet . 

I think of my lovely lady: I never can forget. 

Could Mark? She thrust the thought aside, annoyed at her 
lack of concentration. With frowning brows, she read on: 

Floating-pagoda boat crosses Fen River: 

Across the mid-stream white waves rise; 

Flute and drum keep time to sound of the rower's song: 

Amidst revel and feasting sad thoughts come; 

Youth's years how few! Age how sure. 

“Youth’s years bow few!” She repeated the line, with a 
quick, indrawn breath. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


1 14 

If Miss Vallance lived — to that “sure” old age — lived on, 
broken but compelling, a barrier between the lovers? 

In vain the girl tried to feel pity for the helpless woman. All 
her heart went out to Mark, already saddened by the fate that 
had thwarted him at every turn; Mark at thirty, seeing the 
dawn of middle-age on the horizon. She clenched her hands. 
Youth rose in revolt. 

“I won’t let him!” she cried hotly. “He has sacrificed himself 
enough.” 


CHAPTER X 


D ILLON’S prophecy proved correct. Miss Vallance came 
back, partially, into the world that she had known, with 
fitful signs of helpless life between long torpid intervals. 
No speech; this was denied her. But in the china-blue eyes the 
watchers could discern at times a struggling intelligence. It was 
impossible to judge the workings of that stricken brain. 

A night nurse had been obtained, but Dillon ruled in the day- 
time by the advice of the doctor who had speedily discerned her 
merits. 

“Your Dilly is a treasure,” he told Sabine one afternoon. “I’m 
hoping she will prove a fixture?” 

“She’ll stay as long as she’s wanted,” said Sabine. “She’s not 
one of the restless sort. She was with my mother when I was 
born and when I grew too old for a nurse she remained with us 
as my maid.” 

It was said thoughtlessly. The doctor, curious, probed further. 
“I don’t wonder. A splendid woman. She has travelled, too, 
I understand?” 

“A little.” Sabine drew in her horns. She met his amused 
glance and relaxed. For the pair had become good friends in 
their constant intercourse. “A housekeeper,” she said demurely, 
“has no need of a maid. I wish you’d bear that in mind.” 

He laughed and held out his hand, as he stood in the hall on 
the eve of departure. 

“Good-bye. I’ll take the hint, but I’ll risk a further indis- 
cretion. It’s a lucky thing for Miss Vallance that her house- 
keeper is as good as her nurse.” 

“Ah, you’re ‘after the crame’,” mocked Sabine. 

115 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


116 

She had discovered his pet weakness and the fact that Miss 
Vallance had humoured it in his occasional visits. 

“You think that’s the only attraction ?” he countered, delib- 
erately provoking her. 

A shadow fell across the pair. Mark had approached noise- 
lessly. His eyes passed quickly from Sabine’s face to the medical 
man. In the glance she read a covert suspicion. It hurt her 
pride. She smiled at the doctor. 

“I mustn’t stay, frivolling! I’ve work to do. Good-bye.” 
She vanished with a friendly nod. 

The doctor picked up his hat, then paused, aware of Mark’s 
air of gloom. 

“That’s a clever girl.” 

“She’s capable.” Mark’s lips closed with a snap. It was 
evident that he did not mean to prolong the conversation. “Your 
car there?” It was almost rude. 

“Yes, thanks.” The doctor slowly buttoned his coat. His 
eyes were twinkling. He had known Vallance for too many years 
to feel rebuffed by his manner, but his active brain was searching 
the cause. 

“I hope to heaven I’m mistaken,” he mused as he leaned back 
in the motor. “But she’s very attractive. Poor Mark! That 
would be the last straw.” 

Meanwhile Sabine, in her room, was facing a pile of trades- 
men’s books, endeavouring to decipher the local grocer’s account, 
which looked as if an active spider with ink-smeared legs had 
been cutting capers on the page. She had arrived at this con- 
clusion with the afterthought that a grocer’s spider should be an 
adept at capers! Her pencil broke and she laid it down with a 
feeling of reprieve. She was not in a diligent mood to-day. Her 
thoughts persistently turned to Mark. 

Was he jealous? She felt a guilty joy. It was the first vague 
confirmation of her hopes vouchsafed her for a week. For never 
by a single word had Mark betrayed his love for her since the 
memorable evening. Only in the company of a third person did 
he relax from his reserved courtesy. Even their new friendliness 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


117 

which had quickened at the Cathcarts’ house, seemed to have 
flickered out. She had caught him once avoiding her deliberately 
in Liddingcombe on an errand to the village. Coming out of the 
Boys’ Club, he had stopped dead at the sight of the girl, mur- 
mured vaguely, “Oh, I forgot — ” and doubled back into sanc- 
tuary. 

But his face had been a revelation. She had seen the quick 
light in it, the longing, and then a curious fear in the blue eyes 
bent down on her from the top of the narrow steps. 

Often in his attitude she divined a hint of apology as though, 
aware of the link between them, he blamed himself for a sudden 
weakness. 

She laid it all to the score of Miss Vallance. Mark would 
think it treacherous to take advantage of her state, knowing how 
she would view the affair and conscious of her disapproval. 
Sabine’s pride helped to widen the gulf between them. The 
tete-a-tete lunch held long intervals of silence, but once in turn- 
ing to leave the room she had surprised on Mark’s face a look of 
suffering and of protest. With his soul he called her back yet 
resisted it by the force of his will. 

Dillon, watchful but too wise to interfere, noticed the shadows 
that grew beneath the girl’s dark eyes, guessing the cause: those 
long hours when she lay awake, hurt, rebellious, pondering on 
Mark’s silence, planning wild schemes to break it down that dis- 
solved with the cold light of day. 

The doctor himself remarked the change in her appearance on 
one of his visits. It was a bright Sunday morning, almost warm 
with its westerly breeze although the approach of the Christmas 
month had bared the trees and was blackening the leaves of the 
chrysanthemums. 

“You don’t look very fit yourself.” He studied her face with 
his kindly eyes. “I wonder if you get out enough?” 

She assured him that she felt “splendid.” 

He turned to Mark, standing by, absorbed to all appearances 
in some flaking stucco on the porch. Since the day when he had 
overheard the doctor’s merry compliment, he seemed to shadow 


n8 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the couple with a secret suggestion of being on guard. It had not 
escaped that genial souPs discerning eyes nor the fact that Sabine 
resented it. 

“I think a drive would do her good,” he suggested. “Blow 
away the cobwebs.” Mark unwillingly assented. “I’ve only a 
short round this mornnig.” He addressed Sabine. “Will you 
come? I’ll bring you home in time for lunch. Much better for 
you than church.” 

She hesitated and glanced at Mark who had gone back to his 
study of the weather-worn porch. His indifference angered her. 

“Can I be spared, Mr. Vallance?” 

“Of course.” He did not raise his head. 

“Then I’ll come with pleasure,” she told the doctor. “It’s 
very kind of you to ask me.” 

“On the contrary.” He looked mischievous. “I always drive 
myself on the Sabbath, so I shall expect you to see that the car 
is not kidnapped whilst I’m with my patients. I’ll explain how- 
ever that this was not the only reason why I asked you.” 

“I might go off with it myself,” she laughed back, one foot on 
the staircase. “I won’t be long getting ready.” 

The doctor watched her run upstairs, admiring her swift, 
graceful movements and a glimpse of her pretty ankles. 

“Do you know her story?” he asked abruptly, his voice low- 
ered, his eyes fixed on Mark’s impassive countenance. 

“Very little. One of those cases of changed fortunes through 
the war. At least, so my aunt imagined. Naturally I don’t dis- 
cuss her private affairs with Miss Fane.” 

“Or anyone else?” suggested the doctor. “You’re quite right. 
But it seems hard. She’s fitted in every way for a more — ” he 
paused. 

“Pleasant position,” Mark interposed with a dangerous 
suavity. “Exactly. She’s wasted here.” 

“You couldn’t get along without her at the present crisis.” 
The other looked grave. 

“No. She’s invaluable.” He stared out across the garden. 

The door in the wall was opened wide affording a glimpse of 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


119 

the sunny lane and the banked hedge fringing it. The sound of 
a boy’s high voice drifted in with the steady beat of young feet 
in unison. 

“Right, left! Right, left! Halt l” 

A troop of village urchins playing* the new enthralling game 
was being drilled by an officer in a three-cornered paper hat, a 
wooden sword in his hand. A fresh command, piping and clear, 
shrilled forth and the ragged file, scuffling, eager, but serious, 
marched past framed in the doorway. 

“Bless them!” The doctor spoke gruffly, filled with a sense of 
the contrast of this peaceful, imitation war and the grim struggle 
across the water, 

Mark suddenly gripped his arm. 

“Do you think she ever will recover?” .He spoke with a fierce 
despair that went to the older man’s heart. 

“I can’t say — honestly. She’ll never be the same again, but 
there may be some improvement. Why?” It was asked from a 
kindly impulse to share in the man’s obvious trouble. 

“If I thought she wouldn’t miss me,” said Mark, “I should be 
out of this to-morrow.” 

“I know that.” 

There followed a silence. 

It was broken by a girl’s voice humming a song beneath her 
breath and a sound of footsteps overhead. 

Mark’s nervous grasp tightened. He leaned closer to the doctor. 
“You think that Aunt Beth knows I’m here — that she’d know 
if I went away?” 

“She might. I’d be afraid to risk it.” The words came forth 
reluctantly. 

“Thanks.” Mark wheeled round, releasing the worried man. 
With one swift glance up the stairs he strode down the passage to 
his room. 

“I’m ready,” said Sabine, turning the corner. 

Against the background of polished wood, she made an un- 
forgettable picture, full of warm vitality, the white furs wound 
round her throat, the ermine cap crowning her. 


120 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Yet the doctor groaned in his kindly heart. He belonged to 
that great fraternity which above all others comes close in touch 
with the passions that rule humanity. He held no delusions, his 
faith was simple. He knew the price of renunciation and the 
rarity of it. A shrewd reader of character, he realized in the girl 
before him a certain strain of recklessness and a charm that 
might defeat Mark’s purpose, completing the tragedy of his life. 
It cost him an effort to steady his voice and to say in the same 
airy tone: 

“That’s good. Are you well wrapped up?” 

“Suffocated! Dilly insisted on my putting on an old jersey I 
used to wear skating at St. Moritz.” 

He helped her into the big car, started the engine and took his 
seat. 

“One of her few journeys abroad?” he suggested as they spun 
up the lane. 

“Exactly.” Sabine laughed gaily. “You’re incorrigible!” 

“Tell me about it. I’ve often thought I should like a month 
in the Engadine, but I’ve no time for long trips. My holidays are 
snatched by stealth. All the same, I’d love to travel.” * 

He led her on skilfully to talk of her old wandering life, still 
full of his theory and studying her temperament, revealed by 
sidelights on men and matters. 

“She’s miles ahead of Mark,” he thought, “in experience. It’s 
bound to count. If once he loses his sense of balance the game 
will lie in her hands.” 

Meanwhile Sabine was enjoying the unwonted luxury of swift 
movement through the air and the wide view of the higher ground, 
with the sea below, calm, unruffled, reflecting in patches of ultra- 
marine the clouds that hung as though detached from the pale 
azure sky. They slipped down into a vale and stopped at a little 
hamlet. Sabine saw a blind go up in the cottage window. A 
woman’s face peered out anxiously with the grinding of the 
brakes. She hurried down and opened the door to greet the 
welcome visitor and Sabine was left alone. 

Leaning back in the car she began to reflect on a doctor’s life, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


121 


with the incessant call on bis skill and the grave responsibility. 
It was all very well on a morning like this, but in winter, with 
snow deep on the ground, the wind beating across the car, at all 
hours of the day and night, it must need patience and endurance. 
A fine life, nevertheless, with its wide scope for charity — the 
right sort of charity: ungrudging help backed by knowledge. 
She knew that many practitioners worked among the poorer class 
for a fee that would barely cover their petrol in remote country 
districts. And the war was swiftly thinning their ranks, adding 
to their daily work, whilst the price of living was mounting up at 
an alarming rate. The middle classes were being hit right and 
left, with no protection. They could not strike for higher wages 
although they must meet the rise in taxation. They were the 
people ultimately who would bear the heaviest burden, yet no 
political agitator voiced their undoubted grievances, no fund 
would be raised to meet the deficit in their hard-earned resources. 
They would be heedlessly included in the ranks of more well-to- 
do employers, expected to double their servants’ wages and pay 
for extended education to benefit the masses alone, with higher 
rates and costlier food. 

Their children, brought up painfully on reduced means, must 
turn their backs on their parents’ loved professions and enter 
trade as the only chance of keeping body and soul together. 
Sabine discerned in this again the movement that aimed at 
abolishing caste. In the end the position might right itself, when 
England had learnt that what a man does cannot weigh in the 
balance provided that he does it well. But, meanwhile, in this 
state of chaos wrought by the costliness of war and the increas- 
ing demands of Labour, there would be much suffering to be 
borne by the silent middle classes in a grim struggle against 
starvation under the cloak of that “good appearance” expected 
— and even insisted upon — as the hall-mark of the professional 
man. 

The doctor emerged with a hopeful air, the mother smiling in 
his wake. She looked at Sabine curiously and the girl nodded, 
drawn into the spell of the homely atmosphere, sensitive to the 


122 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


change in it since their arrival. She knew without words that 
the little patient was doing well. 

On they went in a wide sweep inland, with occasional halts, 
until they saw the spire of Lidding St. Mary church pointing, 
like a finger of prayer, to the blue arch of the heavens. The 
conversation had been fitful, the doctor absorbed in his cases. 
He broke a long, sunny silence. 

“I’ve only one more visit now.” He glanced at Sabine. 
“You’re looking better — more colour in your cheeks. Do you 
sleep well?” 

“Generally.” 

“Hm! I wonder what that means?” 

“Six nights out of seven.” 

“And the seventh?” 

“I meditate on my sins.” She refused to take him seriously 
and he gave up the attempt. 

“Well, now you shall see our show place.” He turned in 
between lodge gates, down a sloping drive between high woods 
that descended to the river’s level. They crossed the shallow 
pebbly stream by means of a narrow bridge, lichen covered and 
picturesque, and were shadowed by the trees again. 

“The seat of Sir Joshua and Lady Gull?” Sabine suggested 
solemnly. 

The doctor’s grey eyes twinkled. 

“Yes. Her ladyship’s kitchenmaid is requiring my advice. 
It’s a fine old place — you’ll admire it — the old home of the 
Vallances.” He steered the car round a curve that brought them 
clear of the woods. “There!” 

Sabine leaned forward eagerly to catch her first glimpse of the 
house. She drew a deep breath of delight. 

“Beautiful!” 

The doctor nodded. 

“I thought you’d like it. It’s not been tinkered up, you see. 
The most modern part of it was added in Cromwell’s time.” 

The thought flashed across Sabine that even the Gulls were 
powerless to diminish its ancient dignity, or brand it with the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


123 


hall-mark of money. Holding aloof from its new owners, proudly 
unconscious of desecration, it was steeped in bygone privilege, 
trespassed upon but inviolate. 

Mark's birthplace. Jealously her eyes roamed over the deepset 
windows from which a bright, boyish face had once looked forth 
so hopefully over the tips of the conifers, seeing life as a great 
adventure. Now he was disinherited, and conscious of supreme 
failure. The tears rushed up to her eyes. If only he loved her! 
If only she could bring him comfort — this was her prayer — the 
comfort of true companionship. Passion was very far from her 
as she looked at the stately old house, with its clean and exquisite 
line and colour. The love she felt was almost maternal. Here 
Mark had passed his boyhood. He was still a child in many 
ways — the thought was very dear to her. It set him apart from 
other men she had known in her gay, cosmopolitan life, yet it 
linked him, curiously, with her father. It was a feature of both 
men's charm. 

She pondered upon it as the doctor drew up beyond the wide 
door on the edge of a shrubbery of evergreens, still vivid against 
the bare boughs of the trees. 

“To leave room for the family coach," he explained with a 
glance at his watch. “They'll be coming back from church soon. 
I'm hoping to get through my visit first but, if not, you'll be all 
right here." 

His wish was doomed to disappointment. The door had no 
sooner closed on him than there followed the sound of trotting 
hoofs and wheels grinding over gravel. Round the curve came a 
pair of bays, their harness glittering in the sunshine, drawing 
the vast closed landau. 

From out of this sarcophagus — assisted by a little man, dapper 
and fussy, grey-moustached, whom Sabine guessed to be the 
owner — Lady Gull descended limply, gorgeous in a picture hat 
with a funereal drooping plume, a musquash coat trimmed with 
sable, tight boots with patent toes and a broad expanse of white 
uppers. Black and white — the Sabbath costume! She rolled up 
the steps, then turned and stared through her lorgnette at the car. 


124 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine, her eyes glued to her lap, drew a breath of relief when 
the pair vanished into the house, in their wake Henrietta, carry- 
ing a large prayer-book, with an air of propaganda — as though 
she dared the world to be sinful ! 

But presently a footman appeared with a message from Lady 
Gull. Would Miss Fane come inside? She got out unwillingly, 
yet a little curious to see the house. He led her across the hall. 

She was shown into a small room, octagonal-shaped with nar- 
row doors, suggesting the use of tapestry in days gone by but 
now bare, and was left to a choice of seats. 

There were little gilt chairs with spindly legs of the kind that 
people hire for parties, some imitation Chippendale and a low 
divan in black satin heaped up with yellow cushions finished off 
with gilt tassels. The carpet was black with yellow footstools — 
a virulent yellow that verged on sulphur — the walls were yellow 
with black lines and above, beneath an arched ceiling that shrank 
from the profanity, was a dado like a racing chess board of al- 
ternative black and yellow squares. 

Sabine felt giddy for a moment, then she gave a stifled laugh. 

“It only needed that,” she said as her eyes fell on the mantel- 
piece. 

It wilted under a huge clock in vivid turquoise-coloured Sevres, 
the dial jewelled and upheld by a pair of stout, gilded Cupids; 
on either side was a vase of the same, dazzlingly blue, with gilt 
chains. But in between these creations Lady Gull had yielded 
to a playful fancy which had once been the prevailing mode at 
Bradford: a series of little families of china animals, cats and 
rabbits, dogs of an unknown breed with tight-curled tails, and 
kangaroos. An Easter egg in mother-of-pearl that held a small 
bottle of scent completed the list of ornaments. 

By the window was a table with a black and yellow cloth, de- 
voted to literature. The Daily Mail , the Queen and Truth flanked 
a stout well-bound volume, the reminiscences of a peer, and the 
latest novel by Ethel M. Dell. Behind these, in a Court gown, 
Stood the portrait of Henrietta, aggressively clasping to her breast 
a stiff sheaf of arum lilies. Her satin train billowed round her 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


*2 5 

and seemed to proclaim its price per yard, her forehead looked 
tight with the strain of her drawn-back hair supporting the white 
feathers. But these caught the eye, fulfilling their purpose. Here 
was the Daughter of the House. Lady Gull might drop her 
aitches but Henrietta had “arrived.” 

Sabine, having absorbed these effects, crossed to the window, 
heavily draped with lace curtains looped up with yellow. 

Here at last was a sense of rest. For a flagged terrace met her 
gaze, with the silvery grey of old stone. A pair of time-worn 
statues guarded shallow steps that led down to a lawn of cen- 
turies-old turf ending in a sunk fence, beyond which spread the 
park with dim purple distances and the silhouettes of fine old 
trees. A peacock came slowly up the steps with a mincing gait, 
its burnished neck outstretched, head darting from side to side, 
greed and suspicion in its eyes. As it reached the terrace it 
turned to the left, conscious of a human presence. Sabine gasped. 
The tail feathers were missing, ruthlessly hacked across by a 
vandal hand, leaving a frill of uneven stubbly quills. Its beauty 
was gone; it looked grotesque, like some creature out of a Noah’s 
Ark, uncertainly balanced on its stand. 

“Ah,” said a voice behind the girl, “you’re looking at that poor 
bird. Isn’t it a wicked shame?” Lady Gull had entered the 
room. She came up beside Sabine, rustling, important, bursting 
with talk. “There’s three of them, all the same! Sir Joshua’s 
fair mad about it. They was all right on Friday night and like 
this the morning after. Henrietta thinks it’s revenge on the 
part of one of the farmers. He was always be’indhand with his 
rent — ’ad let the place go to rack and ruin. Sir Joshua gave ’im 
notice to quit. Quite right too! Business is business. That’s 
where old Vallance came to grief — always listening to excuses. 
He ’elped Spendlove — some nonsense about ’is father and grand- 
father living there — at least that ’s what ’e says. But you can’t 
trust ’em — they’re all alike — will get what they can out of you! 
Now, come and sit down, m’dear, and tell me about the old lady.” 
She backed to the black satin divan and became inextricably 
mixed with the cushions. “It’s been a stroke, ’asn’t it?” 


126 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine gave the latest report, with modifications. 

The hostess nodded. There was something distasteful in the 
way she asked for details of the illness. 

“Can she speak?” She watched Sabine shrewdly, recognizing 
her evasions. 

“She hasn’t spoken yet,” said the girl, “but of course she is 
kept quite quiet.” 

Lady Gull gave a little snort. Pulling one of the cushions be- 
hind her, she tugged the tassel, which came oh. 

“Thare! The modern work all over! I only ’ad the room 
done up this spring. Pretty and quaint, ain’t it? I call it ‘The 
Mustard-pot’ — on account of the shape.” 

“A very good description,” said Sabine. She glanced up at 
the arched ceiling. “The old lid is beautiful.” 

Lady Gull, unaware of any satire, rambled on: 

“It’s a bit different to what it was when we came here, I can 
tell you! But the Vallances ’ad no taste. The whole house was 
like a tomb! I suppose they’d think this too bright.” She tossed 
the plumed picture hat. “Though it might ’ave suited the 
daughter-in-law. She was smart, from all accounts — though the 
family looked down on her. Not that she cared! She cut adrift 
pretty quick, didn’t she? Got fed up with Mr. Mark. Well, / 
wouldn’t fancy ’im for a ’usband.” 

The striped room seemed to spring at Sabine like a tiger in 
some delirious dream. Her hands were clenched beneath 
her furs. Only her pride saved her from fainting under this 
deadly and sudden blow. From far away she could hear her 
voice, amazingly calm and indifferent: 

“Oh, is he married?” 

Lady Gull, fiddling with the gilt tassel, raised her head and 
stared at her. 

“Didn’t you know? How funny! But of course she wouldn’t 
talk of it — not Miss Vallance. It must ’ave been a bitter pill 
for ’er to swallow. An actress — and she a Quaker! With no 
money and everyone thinking ’e’d marry Miss Mallison. The 
rich one — ” She caught her breath. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


127 


“Indeed?” Sabine filled the pause. She was mistress of her 
nerves once more. She knew it needed but one word to start the 
garrulous old woman. 

“Yes. Sir James’s first wife was an heiress and she left her 
money to her only child when she died. It would have ’elped 
the Vallances to put the tumble-down place to rights. Mrs. Val- 
lance was set on the match. The most funny thing, to my mind, 
was that they met at the Madisons’ ’ouse, during some private 
theatricals. She came down to stage-manage them and caught 
’im. She was pretty artful. He followed her to town — ’ead 
over ’eels in love he was — a mere boy, just twenty-two and she 
a good deal older than ’im. He married her within a month and 
lived to regret it. The baby died. Neglected — so the Vallances 
said. You see, she went back to the stage. I don’t blame ’er. 
He ’ad no money — only what ’is mother allowed ’im after the 
old squire’s death, though of course ’e came in for the place. Be- 
cause of his marriage she kept ’im close. Besides she ’adn’t 
enough herself although they sold a lot of the timber and lived 
just from ’and to mouth. Well, then the two separated. Mark 
came home and there were scenes. He wanted to sell the place 
and his mother wouldn’t ’ear tell of it. Miss Vallance took his 
part. His own mother never forgave ’im for making such a 
foolish marriage when he could ’ave ’ad Miss Mallison. In the 
end she died and he sold it all up, and took the aunt to live with 
him. Quite right! She’d backed ’im up when all the world was 
against him. I’ll say that for her, though she ’as a tongue.” 
Lady Gull looked virtuous. “I’ve ’eard there’s a curse on the 
’ouse. No eldest son succeeds. But seeing Mark was the only 
one I don’t understand how it worked. Still, he never ’ad no 
luck. His father died when he was at Sandhurst and he came 
back to a pretty mess, everything mortgaged up to the ’ilt and 
debts — !” She threw out her fat hands. “I’d be ashamed to 
live like that. But he couldn’t ’ave cared for soldiering or ’e’d 
be at the Front now, doing ’is duty as he ought.” 

“He could hardly leave Miss Vallance in her present condition.” 
Sabine spoke coldly. “After all she has done for him.” 


128 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“And why not?” Lady Gull raised her voice impressively. 
“When England needs — ” 

The door opened, cutting short the famous phrase. The foot- 
man announced solemnly that the doctor was waiting for Miss 
Fane. 

Lady Gull struggled up, fat hands pressed to the divan, white 
boots much in evidence. 

“Tell him, ’Enry, that Fm coming.” Trained to pronounce 
“Henrietta” with its full aspirate through years of painful ar- 
ticulation, she corrected herself. “//enry!” she called as he was 
making a graceful exit. “You can h’open the window. It’s ’ot 
in ’ere.” She sailed out, followed by Sabine. 

“I want to ask what’s wrong with Fanny,” she confided as 
they crossed the hall. “I don’t trust these young girls — not 
with all these troops about! That’s why it’s best to ’ave the 
doctor, even if she’s on the panel. After all,” she smiled broadly, 
“charity begins at ’ome.” 


CHAPTER XI 


T half-past eight Dillon relinquished her duties to the 



night nurse. Her supper over, there followed the hour 


she loved best when she would steal along to Sabine's 
sitting-room, beg for some mending and settle herself, a pair of 
spectacles wedged on her nose, in the glow of the lamp. 

But to-night the girl had carried it into her bedroom, preferring 
the firelight. 

“It’s cosier," she told Dillon. “Besides it's wicked to sew on 
the Sabbath! Just sit there in the arm-chair and make a back 
for me with your knees." She threw a cushion down on the 
floor and lounged on the hearthrug, watching the sparks fly up 
from a burning log. “Wood? That's an innovation. They gen- 
erally treat me to the coal slack. It's good enough for the 
housekeeper!" 

The bitter comment was so unusual that Dillon felt a sudden 
fear. 

“Why, dearie, that's nonsense. As if annything was too good 
for you. Himself ordered up the logs after a hint I'd been giving 


him." 


“Oh, Dilly, you shouldn't!” The girl stirred restlessly, her 
head flung back on the nurse’s lap. 

“He was plazed to do it," said Dillon stoutly, “an’ there’s 
plinty of wood, for I wint to see — it’s only that Ellen's laziness. 
We was talkin’ of the winter evenings and he axed me if ye had a 
fire. He's wishful for your comfort, love." As Sabine made no 
response, she continued in her soft old voice, “ ’Tis lonesome he 
must feel at times with no one to talk to at all, at all. He ought 
to be thinkin’ of marrying." 

She felt Sabine’s body stiffen. The girl sat up and clasped her 


129 


130 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


knees, her eyes still fixed on the fire. Dillon must know — Her 
thoughts ran on. She would surely learn the truth about Mark 
sooner or later and wonder why Sabine had kept it a secret. 

“He is married.” Against her will a faint tremor crept into 
her voice. “Though he doesn’t live with his wife.” 

She did not guess what a crushing blow the news would be to 
the old woman, nor that it would break down her resolve to keep 
her dreams to herself. She started as Dillon gave a groan. 

“Holy Mother! May Hiven forgive him!” Her words poured 
forth tumultuously. “An’ worshippin’ the ground ye tread on, 
as annyone with two eyes could see! Ochone!” She wailed, 
rocking herself, incoherent with misery. 

“Dilly?” Sabine wheeled round to find herself caught to the 
motherly bosom as Dillon scolded, blamed herself, wept and pitied 
in one breath. 

She found a certain relief at last in an onslaught on Mrs. Clark 
who was “too tight-lipped for an honest woman,” according to 
Dillon’s argument. 

“Niver a word,” she told Sabine, “and me fellin’ thim flannel 
shirts for Himself; and dustin’, and ironin’ — and payin’ her for 
the privilege! Thanks be to the Saints I spoke me mind out 
about the bill before I left — eighteen pince for the cruet!” 

Sabine smiled wearily at the typical conclusion. 

“I don’t see that it matters, Dilly. It’s the Vallances’ affair, 
not ours. I suppose it’s so generally known that nobody refers 
to it. Especially as it happened so long ago and for many years 
the pair have been separated.” She repeated the gist of the story 
told her by Lady Gull. 

Dillon listened eagerly with occasional interjections. “Trapped 
he was, the silly cratur! An actress, with no morals!” and a 
sudden shrewd appreciation of Miss Vallance’s steady partisan- 
ship: “Ay, she would — the owld Squire’s sister. A spinster and 
lovin’ the boy as her own!” 

At last the girl paused, to feel a trembling hand stroking her 
hair. For Dillon had caught, beneath its calm, the bitterness of 
the young voice. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


131 

“It’s yourself I’m troublin’ about, honey. Tell old Dilly what’s 
in your heart? Ye cares for him?” It was a whisper, full of 
infinite tenderness. 

The girl’s pride sank before it. 

“A little. Isn’t it — weak, Dilly?” 

“It’s natural,” said the old woman. “I’ve prayed many a 
night to the Saints, in me ignorant folly, that this should happen. 
A grand up-standing gintleman and lovin’ you as I could see. 
Did he iver spake of it, Miss Sabine?” 

“Never!” Her loyalty rang out. “How could he? I under- 
stand now. But it’s rather hard, isn’t it, Dilly? I wonder why 
these things happen?” She gave a forlorn little laugh. “I thought 
I was proof against such folly.” 

Dillon gravely shook her head. Silence filled the low room 
broken by the faint hiss of the wood where a drop of moisture 
lingered, the life-blood of the old tree. 

“We’ll have to be quitting this now, Miss Sabine.” 

“No!” The girl started up. 

“ ’Tis the only thing to be done. The only honest thing, 
dearie.” The wrinkled eyes were full of trouble. 

“But we couldn't go,” said Sabine hotly. “Leave Mark with 
Miss Vallance helpless and all the house on his hands? It would 
be a cruel trick!” 

“It’s crueller to him to stay.” 

“Why? He doesn’t know I care. At least — ” She flushed. 
“I don’t think so.” 

“There’s no tellin’,” said Dillon shrewdly. “And one day he’ll 
let it slip.” 

“He won’t. You don’t know Mark.” A curious note was in 
her voice, half pride, half despair. “And what excuse could we 
give?” 

For her whole heart was crying out against the old woman’s 
mandate. To snap the perilous link between them, part for ever? 
She could not face it. 

“You could be called away,” said Dillon. 

“By whom? He knows I’ve no relations.” 


132 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“You could find the work too hard for you.” 

“Nonsense! It’s lighter now than it was.” Sabine stared into 
the fire, hunting for fresh objections. After a moment she said 
grimly. “And where should we go? You forget that. I shall 
never find another place like this, with the same liberty, especially 
now Miss Vallance is ill. Or be able to have you with me.” She 
heard Dillon check a sigh midway in the deep bosom. “Besides 
it’s not every one in war times who wants the expense of a house- 
keeper. I’m happy here. I love the place. And the spring’s 
coming — Oh, Dilly, do try and be sensible! ” 

“Sinsible?” Dillon snorted. “It’s meself that has the sinse 
for both! I’ll not be calmly standing by and watchin’ wrong 
without spakin’. It’s niver been me way with you — not since 
you was that high.” She measured a foot off the ground. “And 
you’ll be of the same mind after I’ve packed me box and gone!” 

Sabine was coldly silent. The log in the grate fell forward, 
exposing its charred side. She put it back, her eyes smarting 
with the pungent puff of smoke that drifted out into the room. 
The wind was rising. It moaned and sobbed in the wide chimney 
dolefully, with the eerie note of a storm spirit, adding its touch 
of desolation. 

Dillon furtively crossed herself. It seemed like a presage of 
disaster. She was regretting her flicker of temper as she watched 
the girl’s stony profile. It reminded her of Fane’s to-night in one 
of her master’s obstinate moods. She had a sudden inspiration: 
here was the weightiest argument. 

“Your father would niver approve,” she said. 

Sabine, roused from her dreams, started. Her head went down 
on her hands, her face entirely hidden from Dillon. The old 
woman was holding her breath, praying for a miracle. At last, 
from between her fingers, the girl answered quietly. Her voice 
was muffled yet warm with an amused tenderness: 

“Wouldn’t he?” 

Dillon sighed. 

Sabine raised her head with a jerk. 

“He’d understand better than you. If he knew what I felt 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


133 

about it all he’d try and find a way out. Get Mark to divorce his 
wife. I wonder if it’s possible?” 

“The Saints preserve us!” groaned Dillon. “Ye know that’s 
very wrong, Miss Sabine. No happiness could come of it.” 

“That’s the Catholic standpoint,” said Sabine, unmoved. She 
got up from the floor and stood looking down at her nurse. “I’m 
not going to leave here, Dilly. You, of course, must act as you 
please. I’ve taken you into my confidence, but I can’t agree with 
your judgment. Quite apart from Mark’s presence I feel bound 
to stay with Miss Vallance. I believe she knows what goes on — 
anyhow, at intervals. If I vanished she might guess the truth. 
It might kill her — you can’t tell. In any case she’d be cruel to 
Mark. I’m not going to have him punished — I mean, of course, 
if she recovers. Besides there’s another matter. It may comfort 
you a little.” The hardness suddenly left her voice. For down 
the wrinkled, old cheek a tear was slowly making its way. It 
fell on the tightly-clasped hands, gnarled and worn with loving 
labour. “Oh, Dilly — if you’re going to cry — ” 

“I’m not, dearie.” Dillon snuffled. “But me heart’s sore. And 
you so proud that I’ve held in me arms — ” She broke down. 

Sabine, deeply remorseful, hugged her. 

“ Dear old Dilly — I’m a beast! I promise you I’ll be good. 
But I won’t go away — not yet. It mayn’t be for very long — 
that’s what I was trying to tell you. Listen, Dilly.” She wiped 
away the tears from the fond old eyes. “That’s better. Now, 
cheer up! The doctor thinks that with the spring there may be 
a change — for better or worse. We must wait — just a few 
months more — and see Mark through the hardest part. If she 
recovers, I’ll find a way.” 

“And if she dies?” said Dillon quickly. 

“Mark would enlist at once. I know that — it’s his secret 
desire. He’d be off as soon as the funeral was over. It’s only his 
aunt who has kept him here. She has treated him shamefully! 
No, I can’t help it — I know she’s ill. But his life has been a 
martyrdom.” 

Dillon held the girl closer, as she lay thrown forward across 


134 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the lap that had been her refuge in childish troubles. She ven- 
tured a last protest: 

“And you, Miss Sabine, have you stopped to think how you'd 
be treating him? With his love for you and thrown togither day 
after day — the long timptation? Is it fair on him — answer 
me that?” 

“It can’t be worse than it * is at present. And I don’t believe 
he cares much. He has never breathed a word to me — it may 
be all imagination. But he’s told me things about himself. How 
he’s longed to go and be a soldier and the real reason why he 
couldn’t. I think the fact that I understand, that I’m not like 
that worm, Henrietta, makes all the difference now — just some 
one who believes in him.” 

Her arms went up round the nurse’s neck, her fresh lips pressed 
the seamed old face. She coaxed like a spoilt child. 

“Just wait, Dilly. Only a few weeks more. I’ll tell you every- 
thing that happens. He’s so alone — poor Mark! And now I 
feel I can help him, now that I know everything. I shall just be 
the best of friends — nothing more! Can’t you trust me?” 

Dillon was wax in her hands. 

“I can that, Miss Sabine, darling. You was well brought up. 
I saw to it.” Loyally she included Fane, “And your poor dear 
father too. Though his ways were the ways of men. With his 
terrible loss, who could blame him? And run after by the women 
on account of his handsome face. But oh, dearie, do be careful!” 
She dared not utter her secret thought: that the same hot blood 
was in Sabine’s veins. “It’s playin’ with fire, when all’s said, 
and if anny harm should come to you owld Dilly would niver for- 
give herself!” 

“Dilly won’t have to,” Sabine whispered. 

She slid down to the cushioned floor and drew a deep breath of 
relief, conscious of victory. She tried to draw the old woman’s 
thoughts away from the perilous subject. 

“Talking of such foolishness, did I tell you that Johnson wants 
to be married? To a sergeant in the Territorials, the first time 
he comes on leave. They’ve been engaged for over a year but 
she didn’t dare tell Miss Vallance.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


135 


“No! Would she be leaving us?” 

Sabine smiled. The pronoun chosen showed that Dillon was 
a fixture, her vague threat already forgotten. 

“Only for the honeymoon. She’ll come back to be comforted. 
You can give her no end of advice! You’re rather an old darling, 
aren’t you?” 

“I’m a silly old woman, Miss Sabine, dear. I’m wishin’ your 
father were alive.” 

“Ah!” The girl looked away. After a moment she voiced her 
thoughts. “I don’t think I’m doing wrong. I don’t, really. It’s 
just — bad luck. Why should I care for Mark?” She frowned, 
her head proudly raised. “I’ve known such a lot of men — 
better-looking, brilliant talkers, clever, rich — yet not one before 
has ever seemed worth a moment’s worry. I didn’t want to love 
Mark! If anything, I’ve avoided him. We started by quarrel- 
ling” 

Dillon smiled, with simple wisdom. 

“Often it comes like that, child. The mind wars with the 
heart’s desire. Love’s as much pain as pleasure. I’ve seen it with 
me old eyes many a time. It’s human natur’. ‘Specially on the 
part of a man — resentful-like and yet longin’. And the girl 
wonderin’ and frettin’ because he doesn’t up and spake! Himself 
thinkin’ of the future and the colleen all for the blessed hour.” 

There followed a short spell of silence. 

“Do you think that Mark cares?” Sabine’s voice was very 
low. But before Dillon could reply, pride came to the girl’s 
rescue. “No, I don’t want to hear. It’s no good — so what’s 
the use? I’m going to start afresh from to-night. You won’t 
find me weak again.” She smiled back at the old woman. “Dilly, 
you’ve got two horns of hair sticking up on top of your head. I 
believe you’re turning into an owl! A dear old owl — and now, 
it’s bedtime.” 


CHAPTER XII 


S PRING has come — and left cards on you!” Sabine, smil- 
ing, held out a bowl filled with delicate Lenten lilies on a 
level with the invalid. 

Miss Vallance was now moved in the day-time to a sofa in the 
bay window. From thence her blue eyes could drift over the 
garden that she loved. Loved still, Sabine thought, as a thin 
hand jerked out and touched the pale yellow blossoms. 

“Pretty, aren’t they?” The girl nodded. “Soon we shall have 
all the jonquils and the pheasant-eyed narcissi — your room will 
be full of flowers.” 

The light in the strained face died out with its flicker of in- 
telligence. Miss Vallance lay, the speechless lips parted, vacant 
and inert. Sabine glanced across at Dillon, threading a narrow 
strand of ribbon into a clean night-gown. 

“She’s looking a little better to-day. Don’t you think so? A 
better colour.” 

“Yes, Miss Sabine, more herself.” 

Dillon was always optimistic, a fact approved by the doctor, 
and she always spoke in a level voice. She had not the depressing 
habit of whispering in a sick room, so constant among nurses. 
Miss Vallance might hear or she might not. She was given the 
benefit of the doubt. 

Sabine added a last touch to the flowers on the table and went 
on cheerfully, addressing the mute figure. 

“Pratt’s boy found these in the wood beyond the combe — the 
very first! He brought them for you. Wasn’t it thoughtful 
of the lad?” She did not wait for any sign but proceeded with 
her news. “Maggie Neal has had her baby, a boy — they’re both 

136 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


137 


flourishing. It’s going to be christened ‘David’ — so the father 
told me — after Lloyd George! And the rector’s son is coming 
home. He’s so excited; he hasn’t seen him since he went to 
Canada fifteen years ago. There were twenty-nine eggs this 
morning, so I thought that we could spare a few for old Mrs. 
Pedlar, ‘down-the-lane.’ I knew you’d approve. She was so 
grateful and asked me to give you her best ‘respects’ and thanks. 
Mary’s doing well in service and has sent the old lady ten shil- 
lings. I was to be sure and tell you this as you’d taken an in- 
terest in the girl.” 

Did the silvery head move? Sabine could not be sure. 

“And I think that’s all,” she concluded, “except that there are 
three new lambs — darlings, with long tails! So now I’m going 
out with Vox, to give him a scamper on the cliff. After tea, I’ll 
sing to you.” 

This had become a custom. Music seemed to soothe Miss 
Vallance and the girl’s fresh contralto voice could easily reach 
her from the drawing-room. On a day when Sabine had omitted 
the evening concert Dillon affirmed that the invalid had been 
“fractious,” turning her head from side to side and making the 
low incoherent sounds that were all she could manage by way of 
speech. After that the girl welcomed the remote chance of giving 
pleasure. She felt a profound pity for the stricken woman; a pity 
that passed the confines of duty but stopped short at real love. 
She could not forgive Miss Vallance for the silence imposed on 
Mark that had robbed him of the sole excuse redeeming him 
from cowardice. 

She moved away from the sofa, her eyes watchful. For, at 
times, she would catch a hint of disapproval, a pucker of the 
twisted lips. But to-day, Miss Vallance lay placid, her eyes, de- 
void of expression, fixed on the Lenten lilies. 

Dillon checked her as she passed. 

“If you see that Ellen, Miss Sabine, would you please be tellin’ 
her that I’m short of mending wool for Mr. Vallance’s thick 
socks? I promised to give her a hand with the darning. It’s 
hard upon them that he is.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


138 

“Well, he does a good deal of walking,” said Sabine, “now 
that the pony’s ill.” There was a note of eager excuse in her 
voice and Dillon frowned. Sabine darted a quick glance across 
to the bay window. Had those deaf ears caught it? “I’ll tell 
Ellen.” She went out. 

In the hall Vox met her with an upward, intelligent scrutiny 
that took in her garden hat. He squirmed with joy and barked 
hoarsely. 

“Good boy!” She patted his head. “We’ll go and look for 
the bunny-rabbits.” 

The dog had become her faithful slave. For the first few 
weeks of Miss Vallance’s illness he had clung to the sick-room, 
refusing to leave his old mistress. But when she vouchsafed no 
sign of his presence, missing her touch and the sound of her 
voice he had taken offence. Now no person could lure him into 
that dumb presence. He attached himself to the young girl, 
finding in her a consolation for the amazing change in his life. 

Mark, amused, had remarked upon it. 

“A case of Androcles and the Lion! He’s never forgotten that 
thorn in his foot.” 

For Time had eased the strain between the young couple 
thrown together hourly by the household needs. 

Sabine’s cheerful attitude, friendly and non-committal, had 
taken due effect on Mark. She had been true to her promise to 
Dillon: “the best of friends — nothing more!” 

Yet under their outwardly casual manner, romance lurked. 
There were minutes tense with a feeling of spiritual nearness, 
betrayed in an averted glance, a speech that trailed away into 
silence. Mark, abruptly, would turn aside, Sabine remember 
some pressing duty. They avoided all personal contact: a sure 
sign of latent passion. For weeks they had not shaken hands, 
substituting a brisk “good-night” with a friendly nod or a laugh- 
ing “good-morning,” and Mark would back into a room sooner 
than pass the girl in a passage — those narrow passages that 
brought the sense of her youth and her fresh, young beauty like 
a waft of perfumed air to his face. He steeled his heart against 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


139 

temptation. She, with a pride that matched his own, never wil- 
fully stooped to attract him. 

Now, spring had come. The crocuses starred the borders in 
the garden, displacing the first fragile snowdrops. Everywhere 
were budding branches, the sap rising, the red earth rich with 
promise of hidden life. Birds mated and broke into song, and 
even Vox was aware of the wild, sweet music of Pan's pipes. 

After a solemn moment spent with wet, black nose pressed to 
the ground, he was off with a lumbering trot across the combe, 
deaf to whistling, following up the hidden trail. 

Sabine shouted, cracked her whip, and started to run in pursuit. 
But Vox vanished into space. 

When she came to the cutting that led to the beach, she 
paused and called his name again. The sea-mews answered her, 
and the soft ripple of the waves, breaking with a lace-like edge 
of froth below the ridge of seaweed that marked the limit of high 
tide. There was no sign of the dog. The blue water called to 
her, the moist sand clean and firm, shells glistening, with here 
and there a stranded star-fish or “mock sponge”; in the rocks 
small crabs scuttled and anemones waved their feathery tendrils; 
everywhere were hidden treasures. She succumbed to their 
magic. 

She turned to the left when she passed the shingle, gathering 
trophies on her way, moss-like seaweed, buff and red, pearly shells 
and smooth round stones that held the translucent yellow of 
amber. Their glory would pass when they dried, but now they 
seemed fairy-like, a part of the spring and spring's wonder. 

The soft wind blew off the land. Sheltered by the cliffs above, 
the beach was full of drowsy warmth; it might have been a 
June evening. Far away on the rim of the sea the sun was set- 
ting — a loveliness of palest rose and amethyst — and a lost cloud 
like a cherub floated against the still blue vault, to merge, as 
Sabine wandered on, into a fish-like streak of mauve. 

She came at last to where the rocks jutted out to meet the 
water, the boundary of the crescent-shaped beach. Here she 
made a discovery: the print of paws in the wet sand. Vox? She 


140 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


smiled as she saw a mark like a feather where his tail had swept. 
The trail ended at the rocks. He must have clambered over 
them; there was no way round save by water. 

“I wonder what he’s up to,” she thought. “There can’t be 
any rabbits here.” 

She started to climb the obstruction. It was easy work, the 
shale in shelves, though treacherously slippery where the vivid 
emerald laver clung, or a wet trail of “pursed” seaweed. At last 
she reached the pinnacle, cleared it and stopped abruptly. 

In a little creek at her feet, only a few yards wide before the 
rocks began again, lay a wet and shaggy mass, black against the 
yellow sand; his mouth open, his red tongue quivering from ex- 
citement with, under one paw, the reason for it — a man’s cane 
walking stick! Beyond the spaniel sprawled Mark, hatless, his 
trousers rolled up to his knees and minus his boots and socks. 
An open book fluttered beside him, relinquished for his game with 
the dog. He was talking to it solemnly: 

“No, you’ve had enough for to-day! You’re tired, although 
you won’t admit it. It only means I’ve to wade in and get the 
bally stick for you.” He stretched out a hand for his possession. 

Vox growled and scrabbled it closer. Mark flung back his head 
and laughed. In that moment he saw Sabine, outlined against 
the sky. 

“You!” The word sprang from his heart, bringing the colour 
to her face in a sudden rush of love and fear. Guiltily she looked 
back, downwards into the blue eyes that, for once, revealed their 
secret as surely as had his unguarded tongue. 

The next moment he rose to his feet. 

“Do you want to get down?” His voice was constrained. He 
hesitated, then held out his hand. 

“No — yes.” Confusion seized her. “I can manage alone! I 
was — looking for Vox.” 

She took a reckless step forwards, slipped, lost her balance and 
jumped, just as Mark, seeing the danger, made an instinctive 
movement to catch her. 

She landed full in his arms with a little breathless gasp of 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


141 

fear, her cheek grazing the end of his chin. At this sudden, un- 
foreseen contact, the control of months crumbled and fell. He 
strained her to him. 

“Oh, Sabine, Sabine!” 

Spring had caught them in her net. 


Mark was the first to recover his senses. 

“God forgive me!” He stepped back. 

But the girl stood there facing him with the glow of the sunset 
on her skin, lips still warm with his kisses. She looked proud, 
almost triumphant, in contrast to the man’s despair. 

“I’m glad” Her voice was low but clear. 

“But you don’t know — ” 

“I do know! Everything. About your wife and — Oh, if 
you go blaming yourself any more I shall shake you!” She 
stamped her foot on the sand. 

He stared at her, hurt and amazed. 

“Mark?” Her voice held a new note, possessive and full of 
charm. “You must listen to me. It’s not our fault — it was 
something outside us, a force beyond. We’ve done our best, both 
of us, to avoid this — we’ve played fair. But now it’s happened 
we can’t pretend . It’s too childish. You love me and I know it. 
I love you with all my heart. And I can’t see that it’s wrong. 
It’s more honest to face it together than to go on as we were 
before. So if you think that I regret” — for a moment her quick 
speech faltered, but her eyes never left his face, and she went on 
inexorably — “that moment of happiness, I don’t. It’s mine — 
no one can take it from me! Yours too. You must never 
doubt it. It has given me back my lost pride.” 

He made an instinctive gesture of protest. 

She smiled at him, her head high. 

? ‘Yes. Do you think it has been easy all these last months? 
To know that my heart was given to you, and that you, perhaps, 
pitied me for my blindness, caring little or nothing yourself — ” 


142 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


He broke in: 

“You know I care. If I loved you less should I think, day and 
night, of your honour? Guard every look and word for fear of 
insulting you? Do you think I'm the sort of holy prig who goes 
prattling about his soul, wrapping it up in cotton-wool and living 
for his neighbours' verdict?" He bent down over her, passionate 
anger on his face. “Do you think I did it for myself? Good 
God! It’s like a woman!" 

“It's not like me!’ She spoke bravely. “I know men — I'm 
not a child. Since you put it in that way I'll accept it, as the 
finest tribute ever paid me." Love crept back into her voice. 
“I'm glad you told me. I’m glad this happened. If I went from 
here to-night and never saw your face again, I should never for- 
get; I should hold the secret of your love deep down in my 
heart and it would last me — for a lifetime." 

She saw the resentment die out of his face and the longing 
return. 

“It's not fair." His voice was rough. “Here am I, bound, as 
you know, hand and foot — a poor man and a failure. I've 
nothing to offer you in return. You” — he choked on the word — 
“who could have all the world at your feet. I can't even go away 
and pray that you’ll learn to forget me. I daren't leave Aunt 
Beth. Even if I wanted to." The words were added under his 
breath. 

“But I could." She looked past him out to the fading light of 
the sunset. 

“No!" It was wrung from him. “You want to go?" He 
studied her face. 

“It depends on you. In my turn I'm wondering if it's fair 
play? Would you be happier without me?" 

A sudden silence fell between them. Mark broke it huskily: 

“I think I should cut my throat! Unless you went of your 
own free will. To feel that I'd driven you from here!" 

Silently her eyes thanked him. She sat down on a rock and 
pointed to the sand before her. 


M3 


THE BREATHLESS MOMI^T 

“I can't talk to you up there." 

Mark simply obeyed her gesture. 

Her glance wandered over him, his sinewy length, the strong 
brown hands and the contrast of his white feet. She had not 
realized before, in his rough boots, how well they were shaped, 
with their high arch that bespoke his birth and the neat moulding 
of the ankles. A thrill of pride ran through her. He belonged 
to her — not that other woman. And since he loved her — Her 
thoughts surged on. 

But Mark had begun to speak. 

“I suppose you know all my story?” 

“Yes. Lady Gull told me.” 

“She would tell it well.” His voice was dry. “Did she men- 
tion that I'd had a son?” 

Sabine nodded, in silent pity. 

“I loved him,” said Mark simply. “He died, through my 
wife's neglect. I think she was glad to be rid of him, except for 
the thought that he might inherit the old place — but that went 
too. After that I cut loose. I hated her. I do still. I don't even 
know where she is. She draws her money through her banker's. 
But I have to support her, which means that, except in the way 
of clothes — and those don't cost me much — I'm almost de- 
pendent on Aunt Beth. She has been more than a mother to me. 
I shall stand by her as long as she lives. I don't think it will be 
long. Then I shall go to the Front.” A sombre light came into 
his eyes. “It’s the cleanest way of making an end — but I pray 
for one good fight first.” 

“Pray for more than that,” said Sabine. 

He looked at her wonderingly, with the unconscious absorption 
of love that feeds upon minute detail: a little lock of wind-blown 
hair, the dear, familiar curve of a cheek. 

“For victory?” His voice was weary. 

“I wasn't thinking of the war.” She made a movement as 
though she brushed the subject impatiently aside. “I was think- 
ing of ourselves. I can't believe that this love has been given us 


144 TfyA BREATHLESS MOMENT 

to be utterly wasted — that this is the end.” Her lips closed 
sharply. 

“It must be.” He looked hopelessly over the water. 

She paid him no attention but went on steadily: 

“I shall stay here as long as you want me. I can’t pretend not 
to love you — that’s only a silly convention. The fact remains. 
But I’m clever enough to disguise it from every one else but 
yourself. I shan’t even let Dilly guess that anything like this 
has happened. It’s our secret, yours and mine. And I think, if 
we’re wise, Mark, we can get a scrap of comfort from it. The 
very fact of your telling me has made the world a different place. 
Just to know — ” Her voice vibrated. “It won’t be so hard for 
me now. It’s you — I’m worrying over you.” 

“You needn’t. I’m a man.” 

A faint smile curved her lips. 

“Yes, you’re a man all right.” 

A seagull rose from the water and swooped past on silvery 
wings, uttering its mournful note. The girl followed it with her 
eyes. It was joined by another and the pair circled up to the 
cliffs seeking their hidden nest. For them were no moral laws, 
only instinct: Mother Carey counting her chickens and crying for 
more. 

“We never asked for it,” said Sabine. “We’ve tried to be 
strong and we’ve failed, reaching the human limit. There must 
be something ahead for us. I feel it — I simply won’t lose 
courage. We shall come together one day. In some ways I’m a 
fatalist. Why was I brought to Liddingcombe? A mad ad- 
venture from the start. Yet the very name of the place caught 
me, like a voice calling me home. I believe we were meant for 
one another. We’ve both been through bad times, you especially, 
my dear.” She saw Mark’s hand clench. “No, I won’t make it 
harder for you. It slipped out. I promise, Mark. But I shall 
be there when you want me and you’ll know that there’s some 
one who understands — who believes in you utterly ” 

He turned to her, his heart in his eyes. 

“You do?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


I 4S 

She nodded, the tears rising. With an effort she brought out 
the words: 

“I’m so frightfully proud of you.” She sprang up. “I’m going 
now. No, don’t help me — ” Then suddenly, blindly, she turned 
to him. “Mark!” They clung for a moment together. “That’s 
the last — the very last.” 


CHAPTER Xin 


B UT it wasn’t the last. Not by many a stolen caress and 
the swift clasp of hands in the dark old passages, followed 
by scoldings, remorse — and laughter! For Youth’s tears 
are never far from the bubbling fount of the great god, Mirth, 
and Spring was rioting in their veins. They consoled themselves 
in the old, old fashion: no one knew — it was innocent. Yet 
passion grew with each link of habit. 

Dillon was their greatest danger. For the old nurse became 
uneasy. Was it only the soft, west wind that stained the 
girl’s glowing cheeks and deepened the red in her beautiful 
mouth? Only youth that brought the throb into her voice when 
she sang? In the deserted drawing-room, did no listening shadow 
linger, drinking in those velvety notes? Who bathed in the early 
morning? Sabine — and Sabine alone? 

Once, rising betimes herself and finding the girl’s room vacant, 
Dillon had set forth for the beach. In the hazel grove she had 
met Mark, a bath towel slung round his neck, striding home, a 
glowing figure of strength and covert happiness, a sea-pink in 
his buttonhole. 

Who had put the sea-pink there? 

He had given Dillon a ringing “Good-morning,” and would 
have passed her, but she stopped him. 

“Fm lookin’ for Miss Sabine, sir. Would she be after bathing 
now?” 

“I dare say.” His voice was light. “You’ll probably find her 
in the tent, preparing for a fight with the waves. There’s a bit 
of a swell on this morning. You don’t feel anxious about her, 
surely?” 


146 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


147 

“I do not, sir.” A loyal defiance flashed from the deep old 
eyes. “Miss Sabine’s a great swimmer.” 

Mark hesitated, uneasy. 

“Shall I come back with you?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, sir. Don’t you trouble. Miss Sabine would be better 
alone.” 

Was there intention in the speech or merely the phraseology 
peculiar to the Irishwoman? 

“Very well.” He nodded and passed. 

But the next morning he returned the longer way by the open 
road. A foolish precaution, for Dillon watched him behind her 
blind under the eaves. 

“Then togither they were,” she decided. “And niver a word 
from Miss Sabine! He’ll be cornin’ that way to misguide me.” 
Her faithful heart was heavy as lead. 

She watched Miss Vallance sombrely. She could find no change 
in her. If only Death would intervene? She excused the half- 
uttered prayer with the familiar euphemism. It would be a 
“happy release.” Then asked St. Joseph humbly for pardon. 

“The poor craytur!” Tenderly she smoothed out the linen 
sheets — redolent of lavender — fine and worn as the invalid her- 
self, on the bed she was making. 

For illness had not coarsened Miss Vallance. Deformed, help- 
less, she still preserved her fragile dignity, the tapering hands like 
old wax, the snow-white hair, gossamer. 

Mark would sit by her for hours, gazing out over the garden 
and commenting between long pauses on the changes wrought by 
the season. Easter had passed and the fruit trees blossomed. 
Sabine hurrying through the orchard bareheaded on that morning 
entered the sick-room softly, her hair powdered with stray petals. 

“How is our dear lady?” she asked. 

“About the same.” Mark’s voice was low with the new, virile 
note in it that Dillon found hard to bear. “The apple trees have 
played you a trick.” 

Sabine, puzzled, glanced at her skirt. 

“Or perhaps it’s the fashion” — Mark teased her — “to wear 
flowers in your hair?” 


148 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


She gave her head a quick shake and caught at the petals as 
they fell. 

“I didn't know." She smiled back. “I only ran up to warn 
you that Henrietta is in the hall, writing you a note. I said you 
were out — ” She stopped abruptly. Miss Vallance had stirred 
on the couch. Muffled sounds came from her lips. With an effort 
she framed the word “lie!" 

Sabine gave a little gasp. Collecting her wits, she added 
quickly: 

“Johnson thought you were out. So, perhaps, as you're not — •” 

Mark nodded. Stooping, he kissed the old lady. 

“Don’t you worry. I’ll see to it.” 

The accustomed phrase seemed to soothe her. He glanced 
at Dillon, his eyes wide. Was this the promised change? 

But Miss Vallance had relapsed once more into her usual 
torpor. He rose, faithful to his word. Dillon, the bed remade, 
took his place silently. 

Outside in the passage he found Sabine, equally startled, 

“She spoke!” Her voice was full of awe. 

“Yes.” Mark's face was so stern that she felt afraid of him 
for a moment. “Thank God!” It was abrupt. 

She guessed his thoughts, his heart torn between relief and a 
curious remorse. It meant that his sentence was prolonged. He 
was ashamed of the joy that snared him. 

Her clear eyes met his bravely. 

“I understand.” 

“You always do.” His brow lightened. 

Unheeded, cupped in her hands, lay the delicate pink petals of 
the fallen apple-blossom. 

“Give me those?” His voice was husky. 

Without a word she passed them over. As he went down the 
stairs she saw his face crushed to them. 

She stood there, so deeply happy it seemed to her that all sense 
of weight had left her body; she hung, poised, on the wave of a 
physical emotion that receded and left her weak and trembling. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


149 


Suddenly she saw that Dillon stood in the open doorway. The 
old womans face was hard. 

“She’s better. She’ll be recovering.” 

Sabine nodded, avoiding speech. 

“It’s glad I am,” said the nurse. “For now we’ll soon be 
leaving here. I’m not forgettin’ your promise, Miss Sabine.” 
Her eyes ruthlessly searched the face of the girl she loved, fully 
aware of the dimming colour in her cheeks. “And none too soon,” 
she added grimly. With this she closed the door. 

A fierce anger seized Sabine. Below she could hear the raucous 
voice of Henrietta laying down the law in her usual fashion to 
Mark. She leaned over the banisters and caught a glimpse of 
his face, arrogant and faintly amused, trying to speed the parting 
guest. 

Sabine moved swiftly down the stairs. 

“Hush!” She held up a warning hand. “Oh, it’s you , Miss 
Gull — I beg your pardon.” Humility descended on her like a 
cloak but her eyes were full of mockery. “Miss Vallance is 
asleep. I’m sure you will excuse me. You’re so wise about ill- 
ness.” 

Henrietta glowered at her but took the hint. They watched 
her wheel her bicycle under the stone archway. The blue door 
closed behind her. 

Sabine turned swiftly to Mark. 

“You love me?” 

He frowned at her. 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Because — because — ” Her breath came short. She was 
trembling. 

“Because of Aunt Beth?” He moved back into the deserted 
drawing-room. “Why, my darling — ” The tender words snapped 
the strain. She was in his arms. 

This time there was no evasion, no quick withdrawal, laughter 
or tears. Dillon had done more harm than good. She had of- 
fered an obstacle to a Fane. Sabine took it, flying. 

Upstairs in the silent room, already aware of her mistake, the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


ISO 

old woman sat with idle hands, twisting the thimble on her 
finger. But no inspiration came to her, only the sense of 
treachery. 

“He’s been telling her,” she sorrowed mutely. “And with 
doubt blown to the winds of hiven there’ll be no stoppin’ her 
now, woe’s me! There niver was anny stoppin' Himself, once his 
wild blood was up. And she her father over agin! Oh dear, 
oh dear! what can an owld woman be doing — and ignorant, 
without learning?” She tried to compose her scattered thoughts. 
“If I went away — would she miss me? I will not, I daren’t 
leave her to him. If I spoke to Miss Christabel? And what 
could she say or do, the colleen, with no more sinse than this 
chair! Though her coming may happen for the best — remind 
Miss Sabine of owld days, the pride she had, and the master’s 
death. I’d be wiser leaving things alone.” She glanced up at the 
clock. It was time for Miss Vallance’s medicine. She fed her 
out of the spouted cup, washed it and put it back. “And only 
yesterday,” she thought, “did that Ellen spake of the curse on 
the house. Powers of Evil!” She crossed herself. 

A light step passed the door and Dillon gave a sigh of relief. 
Sabine was going to her room to change her dress before lunch. 
It was a Thursday — her “day out” — and she was to have a 
visitor, Christabel Lang, the vicar’s daughter from the village 
that held the low white house where Fane had peacefully ended 
his days. 

Christabel was the only one in the secret of her friend’s retreat 
and she had begged pathetically for the chance of a talk on her 
holiday from work at a canteen in France. It was worth the 
cross-country journey for even an hour, so she had written. Now 
that the grey pony was well, Sabine was meeting her at the 
Junction. 

As she drove across Lidding Moor early that afternoon she 
was conjuring up the girl’s face, pale and anaemic with wide grey 
eyes under the soft flaxen hair. She had always looked so deli- 
cate, an eager, nervous little creature with a profound admiration 
for Fane and his handsome daughter. Yet, despite her timidity, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


IS* 

her fear of strangers and fragile health, she had braved her 
parents’ displeasure and joined a friend in this great adventure. 
Sabine recalled her first letter with its rather homesick note, 
begging for some “news from England” and forwarded by Sa- 
bine’s lawyers. 

She had made an exception in ChristabePs favour and the two 
girls had corresponded fitfully for the last six months. Now 
they were to meet again, each strangely emancipated, severed 
from the old life by the amazing changes of war. 

It seemed almost impossible to picture Christabel in those 
scenes. Christabel, whose knowledge of men had been largely 
confined to her father’s curates; Christabel in a little French 
town, battered by the first retreat, through which streams of 
wounded passed, mastering her native shyness and serving rough 
and muddied Tommies! 

Sabine smiled at the very thought; a tender smile, for she 
loved the girl and respected her for this fine spirit. 

The local train puffed in and among the few passengers strag- 
gling into the dusty road came a trim figure, eager, assured, her 
left arm in a sling, her face warm with love and excitement as 
she caught sight of the waiting dog-cart. 

“You’ve come to meet me?” She swung herself up nimbly. 
“You dear thing! It is good to see you again.” 

Sabine returned her embrace warmly. 

“But what have you done to your arm, my child?” 

“Oh, that’s nothing” said Christabel. “A burn. Jolly good 
luck, old dear. Shouldn’t have got back to Blighty without it!” 

Could this be Christabel? Sabine laughed aloud. She whipped 
up the grey pony. 

“How did it happen?” 

“A bit of a scrap. Two Tommies rather tight, and one of them 
upset an urn half-full of boiling coffee. Unluckily I was in the 
way. I was really sorrier for him. He was frightfully cut up, 
poor chap, but I saw him again before I left and told him I 
owed him my leave. He gave me a heavenly German helmet! 
So I scored all round.” She laughed gaily. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


iS2 

“I should think you’re glad to be home?” Sabine studied the 
pale face. It held a new look of firmness, the old hesitancy gone. 

Christabel nodded her head. 

“In a way. It’s ripping to see them all. But I want to get 
back to my work. I couldn’t enjoy being idle now. Besides” — 
her eyes were mischievous — “Elsie’s engaged to the new curate 
and so important. You’d really think that no one had ever been 
married before! I say, what ripping gorse!” They had reached 
the lonely uplands, golden in the sunshine. “Ours is not nearly 
so fine yet. Now, tell me all the news. How do you like your 
new job? You’d much better chuck it and come back to France 
wfth me. It’s wonderful.” She drew a deep breath. 

“I couldn’t do that,” Sabine explained, dwelling on Miss Val- 
lance’s illness. 

“You’d see worse things than that with us! That’s the part 
that tries me most. To watch all those boys arrive so gay and 
fearless, and go to their death, or return, broken — ” Her voice 
quivered. “It’s awful. I hate war.” 

“Still, it’s splendid to be of use.” Sabine looked rather wistful. 
It was beyond her means. 

“Yes.” Christabel agreed. “And we don’t have half a bad 
time. Some of the girls are so jolly and then we get a lot of 
freedom, though the hours are long while they last, but the men 
are very decent to us. We’re never at a loose end. There’s a 
big camp not far away and there’s no silly formality. One soon 
loses one’s shyness out there. You see we’re all in the same boat.” 

“But aren’t the authorities rather strict?” 

“On duty,” said Christabel. “They can’t look after us all the 
time. They’re overdone as it is — getting in stores and so forth. 
You can guess it’s no easy job? We never know what’s coming 
along — we’ve got to be ready for any number, and then for a 
few hours it’s a rush, every one working like the devil! But I 
love it.” Her eyes kindled. “I couldn’t have stood hospital 
work — not that perpetual suffering. I haven’t the nerve. But 
you don’t need much courage to pour out cups of tea and pitch 
packets of “Woodbine” about!” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


iS3 

The slang, so unexpected in her, fell daintily from her lips. 
She was prettier, Sabine decided, and her boyish manner rather 
piquant, the face so purely feminine with its soft, smooth skin 
and the quick rise and fall of her silky lashes. 

She seemed to read Sabine’s thoughts. 

“Do you think I’m changed?” She watched her friend steady 
the pony down the hill that led into Lidding St. Mary. 

“Yes — in a way. You’ve come out of your shell.” 

“Time too!” Christabel laughed. “Arthur — that’s Elsie’s 
young man — is rather shocked by my ‘freedom of speech.’ That’s 
his delicate euphemism when I forget and drop a ‘damn.’ We 
haven’t time over there to mince matters — we say what we 
think. And nobody minds. Why should they? We’re all work- 
ing, big and small, straining for the same goal. So long as we’re 
doing our level best, we’re equals, men and women. I think, too, 
it makes us kinder, more lenient to one another. You take 
people as you find them — and it doesn’t matter where they come 
from. I share a poky little room with a girl who’s a Clapham 
draper’s daughter and Sophie Liddell, whom I went out with. 
We’re the best of chums, all three of us, and Laura was awfully 
good to Sophie when — ” She stopped, then lowered her voice, 
adding vaguely, “I brought her home.” 

“Miss Liddell? Was she ill?” 

“Y — es. In dreadful trouble.” Christabel’s young face was 
grave. She began to talk of other matters. 

But after tea, when the two girl’s had wandered down to the 
edge of the cliff, the subject cropped up again. 

“Nobody here understands. They don’t realize the tempta- 
tion — how everything’s different out there. I’m not making 
excuses for Sophie. It was horribly wrong, but she loved the 
man — and now she has to bear it alone.” 

Sabine guessed what the trouble was. 

“You mean — ?” Her eyes met Christabel’s and received the 
unspoken confirmation. “But can’t he get leave and marry her?” 

“He’s killed.” 

“No? Oh, poor girl! ” Sabine’s disgust changed to compassion. 


*54 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“That’s nice of you!” cried the other. “The first kind word 
I’ve heard in England. You see, I’ve been through it all with 
her. She was utterly broken-hearted, almost out of her mind at 
first. Laura and I — ” She left it unsaid, and continued in a 
lower voice, “They called in the doctor and then the whole 
truth came out. Naturally they hushed it up and, as my arm was 
pretty bad, they packed us both home together so that I could 
look after her. I took her down to her people.” She shivered. 
“That was the worst part. They didn’t know anything.” 

No wonder Christabel had changed! Sabine, with her worldly 
knowledge, pictured the interview. What an experience for a 
girl! 

“It was hard on you” She sounded indignant. 

“Harder on Sophie,” the other protested. 

“Were they good to her?” 

“Well — in spots!” Christabel’s young lips curled. “I don’t 
think they’ve ever been very human — the scandal seemed to try 
them most. That and the fact that she wouldn’t ‘repent.’ I got 
rather tired of that word.” She stretched herself on the wiry 
turf, sheltered by the flowering gorse, her face propped on her 
one sound hand. “Sophie admits that it was wrong, but she’s 
looking forward to the child. It’s all that’s left of him now, she 
says, and they treat this as perversity. I don’t believe they’d 
have minded so much the actual fault — it’s the baby! Doesn’t 
sound logical, but people are like that. She says he’d have been 
so proud of it. Of course they meant to get married. He had 
always longed for a child, like lots of men out there. I suppose 
they feel that if they’re killed there’s somebody left to remember 
— of the same flesh and blood. It’s difficult to be altruistic and 
die for an unborn generation when you’re so young and full of life. 
But your own kid — that’s a different matter.” 

Her serious young voice trailed away. Sabine watched her 
admiringly. This child would make a fine woman of the new 
type, clean-minded but facing the facts of life. 

“We’re back again at first causes,” she suggested, nibbling a 
blade of grass. “Up against birth and death without the polite 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


1 5S 

social veil. We’d forgotten that the main idea of marriage was 
reproduction, not a mere social function. I suppose it’s Nature 
taking revenge.” She stared out over the sea, the veil torn from 
her own eyes. The thought had suddenly come to her of what it 
would mean to hold in her arms a proof of her love for Mark — 
to go through “all that” for him. She went on rather quickly, 
throwing away the stem of grass, “I’m glad she really wants the 
baby.” 

“It’s the only thing she’s living for. She says if it hadn’t been 
for that she would have joined him right away. You’ve never 
met Sophie, have you?” 

“No. Tell me what she’s like.” 

“She’s a dear.” Christabel’s lips quivered. “So pretty, with 
her chestnut hair — it’s almost red — and big brown eyes. She 
has always been so gay and happy and ‘pal-ly’ with every one. 
She’s not a bit fast — she isn’t, really . I can’t think how — ” 
She broke off, watching a little sailing craft tacking across the 
blue bay. After a moment she continued: “Of course there are 
girls out there who don’t seem to have much pride. When the 
evening work was over we generally went for a walk. There’s a 
wood not far from the town where one could find primroses. The 
men in the camp knew we went there and they used to turn up 
when off duty. One night, we had the jolliest picnic supper, and 
another they sneaked a transport waggon and took us for a moon- 
light drive. Of course there were mild flirtations, but harmless 
for the most part. There’s a sort of feeling that nothing matters 
— that nothing can last. Death’s everywhere. You would think 
it would make men serious, but it doesn’t — it’s quite the reverse. 
They’re just boys in wild spirits snatching a few hours of joy. I 
wonder if you can understand?” 

“Yes, it’s natural. They feel cheated. I should in their place.” 

Sabine spoke in little jerks. Mark had been cheated all his 
life, was cheated now of his heart’s desire. It made her com- 
passionate to Sophie. She had given love with both hands utterly 
heedless of the cost. Wrong? Of course it was wrong, but it 
roused in Sabine a curious doubt of the virtue of self-control 


i5<3 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


where it was dictated by prudence. They had lived their golden 
hour together; nothing could rob the dead soldier of that. Now 
Sophie was to bear his child and refused to accept the orthodox 
view that it was sent as a punishment. It was Nature’s conso- 
lation — it might have its father’s eyes. 

Eyes as blue as the sea below flashed into Sabine’s vision, 
the long straight limbs of Mark, the bare feet with their shapely 
ankles. 

Christabel broke the dangerous silence. 

“It’s such a relief to talk to you. I daren’t tell Mother. She’d 
be horrified. She’d never let me go back to France. And Elsie — ” 
She gave a scornful laugh. “There she is, facing marriage 
and ignoring all that side of it. She belongs to a past generation. 
This war is just an accident — you can't bring things home to 
her. She doesn’t approve of me at all!” 

“Well, you’ve changed a little.” Sabine smiled. 

“But don’t you see,” said Christabel, “that everything’s 
changed, even Time? The Past lies miles behind us, like looking 
the wrong way through a field-glass. Those little pleasures and 
little fears and wondering what the neighbours thought! It’s a 
half-forgotten era. The Present’s the only thing that counts. 
As to the Future, it’s further still.” Her chin still propped on 
her hand, she stared wistfully over the sea. “Those boys, now, 
out there fighting, they’re gripping the Present recklessly, living 
for the breathless moment — a brief respite snatched from death.” 

“And Sophie gave him his breathless moment?” Sabine’s voice 
was very low. 

Christabel, without speaking, nodded. 

The little boat heeled over, righted itself and sped onwards 
leaving a white trail in its wake. Seagulls were wheeling over 
head, the only disturbers of the peace. Here were no signs of war, 
the West country inviolate, far from those scenes of carnage. 
Suddenly the girl sat up. 

“How can they understand?” she cried. “Here, in England.” 
She waved her hand in a hopeless gesture to the sea. “I’d like — 
I’d like — ” Her voice broke. “Why, there’s a woman in our 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


*57 


village who thinks that we’re at war with France! And Mrs. 
Talbot at the Manor says she ‘never reads the papers now be- 
cause they’re so full of horrors’! I wish the Huns would drop a 
bomb in the middle of the park. It would do Elsie good — Ar- 
thur too, with his smug face. He calls the war ‘regrettable’: 
‘this regrettable war, my dear brethren’.” Christabel mimicked 
the unctuous voice. “If I were a priest I’d stand up in the pulpit 
and give them bitter facts. And then I’d say: ‘It’s up to you to 
do your utmost in work and money to help the men out there 
and keep the country going at home. And if you don’t, you’ll be 
damned’! Yes, although I’m a clergyman’s daughter. If the 
Church has any authority, now is the time to use it. I told Father 
so plainly.” 

“And what did he say?” 

“He said mildly that young people went to extremes.” She 
gave a helpless little laugh. “He’s an old darling — Mother too. 
But they’re both embedded in ancient custom.” She glanced at 
the watch on her wrist. “What about that train, old dear? I 
hate going — it’s heavenly here. All the same — ” She scram- 
bled up. 

As they walked back across the combe she tried in vain to 
persuade Sabine to spend a week-end with her in her parents’ 
vicarage. 

“Do come? It will do you good and you know how fond they 
are of you. Couldn’t you ask Mr. Vallance to give you a little 
holiday?” She added, with sudden curiosity, “What is he like?” 

Sabine stooped to pluck another blade of grass. 

“Oh, he’s all right.” Her voice was careless. 


CHAPTER XIV 


J UNE stole in over the sea, and where her laughter-loving 
eyes found a crack in the crumbling cliff wild pinks blos- 
somed and every shell grew more translucent, the silvery 
sands caught the gleam of her shining hair and the magical blue 
of the water deepened. In the hazel grove, a nightingale, “singer 
of such pain and bliss,” filled the darkness like golden wine poured 
into a purple chalice. 

“Nature can make no mistake,” dreamed Sabine. “The night- 
ingale, at the close of the day, calling to lovers through the 
moonlight to snatch a poignant hour from sleep, and with the 
dawn a purer song, the call to endeavour of the lark — passion, 
then far-seeing love.” 

She looked up into the sky, hazy with heat; above her head a 
speck was fading out of sight but the clear, sweet notes showered 
down. Across the short, wiry turf the “pensioner” came lumber- 
ing up, his mane still glistening with the dew, and she felt in her 
pocket for some sugar. 

“You oughtn’t to have it — it’s getting scarce. Still, you’re 
an old soldier!” 

He took it from her clumsily and slobbered over her out- 
stretched palm. She gave him a playful slap ; he wheeled round, 
suddenly skittish, and trotted off, still scrunching. 

“Ugly teeth — like Henrietta’s,” Sabine, watching him, de- 
cided. “She’s altogether the equine type. Many Englishwomen 
are; others resemble sheep. And then there’s the greyhound breed 
one finds in old families, with the long, fine nose and slender 
shoulders. Sloping — I’m glad my shoulders don’t!” She 
straightened them, with the thought. 

158 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


iS9 


She had bathed alone this morning, with no race to the head- 
land and the childish excitement of beating Mark. Given a rec- 
ognized start, she knew herself to be fairly matched, yet she 
wondered, at odd moments, if Mark put forth his whole strength. 
He was wise enough to win — sometimes ! Then, after his hurried 
dressing, when he emerged from his creek in the rocks and found 
Sabine outside her tent drying her hair in the sun, there would 
be the game of prizes. 

On one day it would consist of a sea-pink, slipped into his 
buttonhole; on another, a packet of chocolate which he insisted 
on sharing with her. Once it had been a live crab with a very 
active nip! Mark had protested at this; a mean trick when his 
eyes were shut. He paid her off by producing a blind abortion 
he called a sand-eel, the next time she was the winner. For love 
had awakened in both of them the undying spirit of youth. 

He made her free of Crusoe’s cache . She sampled the beer 
one thirsty morning, the pilot coat wrapped about her, screening 
the damp bathing-dress. Seated in the deck-chair at the sunny 
mouth of the cave, she poured a part of the first glass solemnly 
into the sea to placate the wrath of Neptune. They wondered 
absurdly what the effect would be on the fishes, and later, the 
gulls. 

“Don’t tell Henrietta or we shall have a temperance move- 
ment,” Mark warned her. “All the sprats wearing bits of blue 
ribbon! She’s so determined, once she starts. I hear her latest 
wild campaign is to protest against the rations of rum served out 
to the troops. She’s writing to the papers about it.” 

“Why don’t you take the challenge up and set forth the other 
side?” Sabine looked indignant. 

Mark frowned and shook his head. On this point he was 
reserved. He would not be led to discuss his writing. He was 
sensitive to mockery. 

Sabine watched him, over her tumbler. She emptied it, gave a 
sigh of pagan enjoyment and handed it back. Mark filled it up 
again and drank deeply. 

Quite suddenly she confessed. 


160 THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 

“I found a lot of manuscript the day that I explored the cave. 
But the page I glanced at wasn’t yours? At least not in your 
own hand — ” 

He interrupted, his eyes twinkling: 

“Will you bet that it wasn’t?” 

“Yes. Twopence.” 

“You’ve lost, my child!” He looked as pleased as a schoolboy. 

Going back to the cupboard, he found a pencil and scrap of 
paper, returned and smoothed the latter out on the sandy floor at 
her feet. Sprawling there, with his left hand he proceeded to trace 
laboriously the following inspired lines: 

“Why is Sabine unlike a lobster ? 

Because she omits the saving claivsl” 

“Oh, you fraud! With your left hand? That’s cheating!” 
She made a face at him. 

“No, culture. I broke my arm when I was a boy at school and 
acquired this accomplishment. It’s jolly useful, I can tell you. 
I still practise it sometimes.” 

“Let me look?” 

He gave her the paper. 

“It’s not a bit like your usual writing. Nobody would rec- 
ognize it. It’s the other side of your character.” She smiled at 
him mischievously. 

“Unbalanced, what? You’ve got me there! Well, you should 
know.” He squirmed forward and went down recklessly over 
the rocks into the sea with a splash. “Come along! You’ll be 
catching a chill.” 

Idyllic days. Could they last? 

For there were others when Mark fell a prey to profound de- 
pression, when he chafed against the hopelessness of the passion 
that consumed him, cut off from the only path that had offered to 
many a man free redemption and chance of honour. Then he 
would avoid Sabine, take long tramps across country, heedless of 
meals, and return, dog-tired, to sleep the sleep of exhaustion. 

She met him half-way in his moods with the understanding bred 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


161 


by the years of intimacy with her father. Never did she question 
Mark or allude to his avoidance of her. No plaintive: “What is 
the matter? You’re vexed about something,” passed her lips. 
He had not to bear the masculine torture of the “home inquisi- 
tion.” She accepted him as a virile man, master of his own soul 
and unquestioned lord of his habits. 

Secretly he gloried in her. Not only beautiful but wise: a 
man’s woman, body and soul, fearless and incurious. What a 
wife — and what a mother , she would make! If anyone could 
break the curse upon his house, Sabine, and Sabine alone, could 
do it. 

The eldest son? Only once had the prophecy been unfulfilled 
and then there had been a veiled doubt as to the Squire’s pa- 
ternity. Even he had died childless and the old blood had suc- 
ceeded, unmixed, in the shape of a younger branch. 

The curse, then, did not extend to sons born out of wedlock? 
That fancy, a tiny seed, took root in Mark’s mind. Little he 
thought that the girl was troubled by the same perilous thought, 
that love had quickened in her heart the germ of maternity. 
Sophie’s story haunted her and the girl’s defiant attitude. She 
had sinned; she was willing to bear the cost, but not as a punish- 
ment. Accepting love she would give life. Surely the scales were 
equal? 

The problem even invaded her sleep. If dreams are born of 
subconscious desires — - as some scientists aver — how much more 
are the actions of life, when hidden thoughts materialize? The 
shadow of a little child slipped between them as they moved 
about the drowsy, indulgent house, danced before them through 
the fields chasing the sulphur butterflies. 

Meanwhile in the silent room Dillon, hopeless, watched Miss 
Vallance. Since the day of Henrietta’s visit no further word 
had passed her lips. Dillon could hear Sabine singing softly as 
she tidied herself for the day’s work, hanging the wet bathing- 
gown out of the back window. Youth was heedlessly cruel to 
age. Sabine could sing whilst Dillon sorrowed, powerless, looking 
on, disapproving and ignored. They never approached the sub- 


i 62 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


ject now that lay nearest to their hearts, avoiding it by tacit 
consent yet each armed for the conflict should the heavy storm 
cloud break. 

It would mean banishment for Dillon. She knew that and held 
her tongue. Age, at least, had brought patience. She needed it 
all this golden June. Yet, oddly enough, against her will, she 
grew to appreciate the man. Mark was so scrupulous in pre- 
serving Sabine from any hint of gossip. His manner to her in 
public was perfect; if anything a shade austere, with the touch of 
conscious arrogance that Dillon silently approved. One could see 
that he was the “gintleman born”! But how did he speak when 
they were alone, far from the house and listening ears? What 
went on in those pearly mornings before the world was astir? 

To-day Miss Vallance was very restless. She had been diffi- 
cult to feed. Even the sight of fresh flowers brought in by 
Sabine after breakfast failed to give her the usual pleasure. It 
seemed to the watchful nurse that the old lady had some desire 
that came and went with no means of expression. What did she 
want? Her blue eyes, unusually intelligent, followed Sabine, and, 
when the girl after a few soothing words moved to the door, they 
clouded with anger. She began to mutter fretfully. 

“Could you stay a few minutes, Miss Sabine,” Dillon asked 
her quickly. “I think there’s something troublin’ her, and she 
doesn’t take kindly to your going.” 

The girl came back immediately. 

“What is wrong?” Her voice was gentle. She stood looking 
down at the sofa. “Don’t you like the pink roses? There weren’t 
any red ones this morning open wide enough to cut. No?” For 
the silvery head had been moved in querulous disapproval. “Then 
what is it? I wish I could help.” 

The invalid stirred on her pillows. Slowly the one hand she 
could move was raised, the fragile fingers pointed. 

Sabine, amazed by this lucid action, followed the line of direc- 
tion. On the top of the chest of drawers that filled a recess op- 
posite stood an old-fashioned writing-desk of walnut inlaid with 
mother-of-pearl. Could it be this Miss Vallance desired? 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 163 

Sabine quickly crossed the room and laid her hand on the pol- 
ished top, watching the stricken face. 

“You want the desk?” She was sure, by the patient’s ex- 
pression, that her guess was correct. 

With her strong young arms she lifted it down and carried it 
across to the table. The blue eyes watched her eagerly. 

“It’s locked,” said Sabine. “I’ll find the keys.” 

But Dillon already was searching for them, a little bunch with 
an ivory tally labelled “Bedroom” in the old lady’s neat writing. 
They hung on a nail in the medicine cupboard and Dillon had 
noticed them before. 

“Here they are, Miss Sabine.” Rarely now did she add the 
“dear” of the old familiar phrase. 

The girl took them and, obeying a sudden instinct, held them 
out respectfully to her employer. Miss Vallance looked pleased. 
Without the slightest hesitation she picked out a small, gilt key. 

“That one?” Sabine was stirred by a rising sense of excite- 
ment. Never before had the invalid shewn real proof of mental 
power. It seemed like a miracle. 

She turned the key in the lock and lifted the heavy lid, the 
desk close to the sofa. 

Inside was a shallow tray divided into little sections, one hold- 
ing a glass inkpot with a screw top of tarnished silver, another for 
pens and pencils, and beyond this a quaint box, perforated, for 
scattering sand before the use of blotting paper. The rest of 
the space was employed by a book, holding this article, with a 
lacquer and mother-of-pearl cover. The faint odour of old leather 
and a lingering aromatic scent from a vinaigrette that was lying 
among the fine pearl penholders stole up to the girl’s nostrils with 
its fragrant suggestion of age. 

Sabine lifted out the tray carefully, watching Miss Vallance’s 
face. Beneath was a deep well, filled with packets of yellowing 
letters, a prayer-book with an ivory back inlaid with a silver cross, 
and a single long envelope, obviously newer than the rest. 

The thin fingers crept out and pulled feebly at one corner. 
The girl needed no further bidding. She extricated the envelope 
from under the ivory missal and handed it to its owner. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


164 

For a moment the latter lay inert as if mustering her forces. 
Then the blue eyes were raised with a searching glance to Sa- 
bine’s. She jerked the treasure towards the girl. 

“You wish me to keep it?” 

Miss Vallance frowned. 

“To read what is written on it?” guessed Sabine. 

A faint smile was the response. 

Sabine held the envelope up to the light. In the fine sloping 
hand was inscribed these directions: 

“For Mark. 

To be opened after my death.” 

This was strongly underlined and, beneath, lay the defiant 
words: 

“Written on Thursday , October 5 th, tn full possession of my 
senses .” 

Sabine drew a horrified breath of dismay at the coincidence. 
It was the date of Miss Vallance’s seizure! 

She guessed that whatever lay within had been penned on that 
fateful afternoon. The indomitable old lady, feeling the approach 
of illness, had sat down deliberately to impose her will on Mark 
from the other side of the grave. 

Dillon roused the girl from her stupor by a quick touch on 
her elbow. 

“She’s wanting you.” 

Sabine started. She thrust her apprehensions aside, aware of 
her present duty. 

“I’m to give him this?” she asked Miss Vallance. 

In response the first finger pointed. Dramatically it trailed 
across the envelope under the scored line. 

“After your death?” Sabine frowned. Her eyes sought the 
merciless face. 

Miss Vallance watched her anxiously. She tried to speak. No 
clear words came, only incoherent sounds; slowly a tear gathered 
and fell, trickling down the transparent cheek. Her helplessness 
conquered Sabine. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


165 

“I will. I promise.” She brought it out. 

A faint sigh was the response; the nerveless hand fell limply, 
Miss Valiance closed her eyes. 

Dillon moved forward, her face anxious, bent for a moment 
over the patient, listening to the feeble breath, watching the 
colour in her lips. 

“Shell do.” 

Sabine nodded gravely. After a moment’s indecision she re- 
placed the envelope. It was safer there. She locked the desk 
and put it back in its old position. Her actions were mechanical, 
for her thoughts were elsewhere, concentrated on the grim docu- 
ment. What were Miss Vallance’s last wishes? Did they concern 
the war? It seemed a likely hypothesis. She glanced nervously 
at the sofa. 

Dillon’s finger went to her lips. 

“Sleeping.” She hardly breathed the word. 

Sabine went out on tiptoe. Dillon followed her to the door. 
Outside she voiced her fears in a whisper. 

“It may be a warning! Will you go find Himself to prepare 
him? It’s a change, for sure, one way or another. I would like 
the doctor to know. It’s not his day but it would be wiser. I 
must be gettin’ back to her.” But she paused for a moment and 
laid a hand timidly on the girl’s arm. “You aised her mind, Miss 
Sabine, dear. The Saints will reward you.” Her voice faltered. 

So Dillon had read the inscription too and guessed the battle 
in Sabine’s heart? Obeying a swift impulse, the girl stooped and 
kissed her cheek. 

“I’ll find Mark and send for the doctor. Dear old Dilly!” 
She saw the light spring up in the faithful face. It filled her 
with a sudden remorse. “'Don’t stay — I’ll return.” 

She went down to Mark’s study. The door was ajar and she 
entered. There was no one there. As she turned to go she saw 
upon the mantelpiece a flat brown stone, lustreless, robbed of the 
onyx-like beauty which had distinguished it when wet. But 
treasured — Her eyes filled. Behind it was another “prize,” a 
tuft of seaweed, crisp and tangled, and a little stick roughly 


i66 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


carved into an absurd figure. Playthings, yet breathing of happy 
hours. What lay in that narrow letter? A fresh blow for the 
man she loved? 

She sent Ellen into the village to inquire if Mark had been seen 
there. She did not like to leave the house, forsaking Dillon at 
such a crisis. But Miss Vallance was still sleeping when John- 
son brought in the lunch and Mark was nowhere to be found. 

Far away on Lidding Moor, he sat, his head propped on his 
hands, in a cutting between high flowering gorse, watching away 
over the sea a “blimp” on the look-out for submarines, cursing 
himself for his impotence and for what hurt his pride still more: 
the knowledge that love was lessening his old desire to serve his 
country. That, between the death which could save his honour 
and the life of the frail old lady, lurked a more insidious motive, 
his passion for Sabine, sapping his manhood and driving him 
headlong into folly that could only end one way. 

Mark groaned. In that moment he would have given all his 
strength to tear her memory out of his heart and to go back to 
those days of despair when he had seen his path clear. Duty? 
How could he prate of duty? He was a shirker now by choice. 
He swore aloud: 

“By God, Pm not!” 

But the blue skies mocked at him. He stood convicted in his 
weakness. 

That night Miss Vallance died. 


CHAPTER XV 


I WANT to talk to you,” said Mark as Sabine rose from the 
table. The pretence of eating lunch was over and Johnson, 
red-eyed, had left the room. “Somewhere outside.” He 
glanced as he spoke at the drawn down blinds restlessly with a 
man’s instinctive distaste for gloom. “Can you be spared for 
half an hour?” 

“I think so — the servants will be at dinner. I’ve just one 
thing to see to first. Tell me where I shall find you?” 

He thought for a moment, his face strained. 

“Is the beach too far? It’s quiet there.” 

“No. I’ll join you presently.” She gave him a wavering smile, 
wondering what was in his mind. Her heart was heavy for she 
knew the duty that lay before her. 

She went upstairs to her room, unlocked a drawer and took out 
the fateful, long envelope. She turned it over in her hands. 

“I must. I promised. Poor Mark!” 

Then she went in search of Dillon. 

“I’m going out for a little. I don’t expect I shall be wanted.” 
“No, dearie.” The old woman eyed her wistfully. There was 
something pathetic about the girl in the black dress she had worn 
for her father with its shabby silk jersey that revived sad mem- 
ories. For mourning seems to set the seal on the irrevocable 
nature of death. “A breath of air would do you good.” 

It was a concession, for Dillon guessed that Sabine would not 
be alone. 

“I’m going to discuss plans with Mark.” 

This proof of renewed confidence touched her nurse. She 
smiled wisely. 


167 


1 68 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Yes, dearie.” Faith for faith; she added no doubting com- 
ment. 

But the girl lingered, deep in thought. Through the narrow 
passages came the scent of hothouse flowers, with which Miss 
Vallance’s room was filled; tuberose and freesia with madonna 
lilies sent in by the sad old gardener, ruthless regarding the 
coming “show” — a pathetic tribute to the dead. 

“I can’t believe she’s gone, somehow.” Sabine spoke her 
thought aloud. There had been little chance that morning of 
talking privately with Dillon. 

“It’s far better, Miss Sabine, dear. She’ll be happier where she 
is. And we ought to be thankful that she was took in her sleep 
without pain or trouble. She’s like a blessed angel now. It 
should be a comfort to Himself.” 

Sabine assented gravely. But had Miss Vallance left trouble 
behind? This was her fear as she went downstairs, fastened on 
her garden hat and passed out through the porch between the 
tubs of giant fuchsias. 

Their tasselled heads hung languidly. The leaves of the copper 
beech beyond the lawn were fluttering, turning to welcome the 
coming rain. For a dark cloud with a coppery rim challenged 
the might of the sun; there was thunder in the air. 

The hazel grove as she entered it seemed ensnared in a spell 
of silence, the birds already seeking shelter, too conscious of the 
tension to sing. From a field on the right the pungent scent of 
flowering beans rose, overpowering, blent with that of the wild 
thyme on the banks and the sunburnt gorse beyond. Sabine felt 
her breath come short as she crossed the combe in the veiled 
glare and made her way down the cutting where loose sand had 
gathered deeply, impeding her at each step. She had the physical 
sensation of loneliness that often results from nerves unstrung 
by a shock. It seemed a foretaste of the future, already the 
aftermath of parting. 

Mark was leaning against a rock, staring over the green-grey 
sea where long oily streaks appeared like paths without a definite 
object. Here and there a gull floated, wings furled, upon the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 169 

water, close inland. It held the effect of a tin toy, painted white 
but dimmed by use, in a child's soapy bath. 

“Mark!” 

He turned with a start to find her by his side. His face looked 
grey beneath its tan, there were sombre lines about his mouth, 
the lips compressed as though in pain. Only his eyes suggested 
youth, so deeply blue Sabine guessed that, lately and secretly, 
they had been washed by a man's shamed tears. 

“Let's sit down. I want to talk. I've so much on my mind.” 
He spoke abruptly, in little jerks. 

“Tell me everything,” said Sabine. She leaned back against 
the rock, then touched it with her fingers. “It's hot — I felt it 
through my jersey.” 

“There's a storm coming — two storms.” His eyes went back 
to the sea. “One beating up against the wind and the other from 
the southwest. When they meet, we shall have trouble.” He 
leaned forward and with his stick began to trace patterns in the 
sand. 

She waited, her hands in her lap, loosely clasped, aware of 
Mark's averted head; patient, with the patience of love when a 
woman's brains are as large as her heart. She knew he was 
trying to put into speech a problem that seemed too great for 
words. At last in despair he blurted it out: 

“What shall I do?” 

She understood. The colour beat up into her face. He was 
offering her the casting vote. 

Everything that was fine in her rose to help him at this crisis. 

“What you always said — go to the Front.” 

He looked up with a startled expression. 

“You mean that? You wish me to go?” 

The clasp of her slim fingers tightened. A lump rose in her 
throat. 

“I wish you to do — what you think right.” Suddenly her 
voice cleared and her words came forth rapidly. “You must! 
I can't count in this. I should never forgive myself if you went 
back on your decision because I weakened you. I can't bear 


170 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


parting from you but, even if you were my husband, my pride — 
your pride — ” She stumbled a little and caught herself up. “Oh, 
don’t you see, everyone must respect you! It’s your duty — 
there’s no evading it.” 

“Sabine!” Wonder and gratitude rang out in the cry. His 
arm went round her in a grip that was harder than he guessed. 
He did not attempt to kiss her. It was a tribute almost sexless 
to a courage that called to his own. “Thank God! I’ve been 
a fool. I never dreamed — I’ve been dreading this.” 

She gave a shaky little laugh. 

“What did you expect me to say?” 

She leaned back against his shoulder, her body relaxed, sud- 
denly tired. She had utterly forgotten the letter. She could 
feel the rough serge of his coat against the nape of her neck and 
inhale the faint smell of tobacco that lingered in his clothes. It 
seemed to drive the old horror of loneliness away from her. She 
had him now, for one perfect moment; she was storing up mem- 
ories. 

It was like him to be silent. Her question had required no 
answer. She smiled, guessing his secret thoughts. From far 
away over the sea came the first angry rumble of thunder. It 
made her think of the distant guns. Absurdly, there rose in her 
mind Lady Gull’s favourite phrase: “England needs every man.” 
They should never be able to say again that Mark was a coward ! 
Her eyes flashed. 

“I shall be so proud of you.” She whispered it into his coat. 

“Dearest — ” He laid his cheek against her dark head. “You 
make me ashamed. But you’re right — I think you’re always 
right! There are no two questions about it. It wasn’t because 
I really shirked it. It was just you and your point of view — 
and the hopelessness of it all! But you understand. I needn’t 
explain.” After a moment he went on, “You’ll stay here and 
look after things?” 

“Can I?” 

“Of course. I couldn’t bear to imagine you anywhere else. 
You belong here — they all love you. Think of the comfort to 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


171 

me it will be? You know the village and you’ll be kind to the 
old folk — my substitute. I shall put everything in your hands. 
It won’t be too much for you?” 

“No, I shall love it — write long letters and give you all the 
village gossip. I expect I shall worry you frightfully.” She 
could smile now, the battle won. 

“I sha’n’t mind that sort of worry!” 

“But you’ll be careful of yourself? You won’t run needlessly 
into danger?” 

“No.” He had caught the fear in her voice. “I shall try and 
share your optimism and believe that there’s something ahead — 
for us.” 

A short silence fell between them. Sabine broke it first. 

“When will you go?” She whispered the words. 

“Not for another month, I think. There’ll be a lot for me to 
see to. I haven’t looked at the will yet but I know pretty well 
that Aunt Beth— Why, what’s the matter?” 

The girl had started, with a quick exclamation of dismay. 

“Oh, Mark! I forgot. There’s a letter.” She struggled up 
and felt nervously in her pocket. “Wait! I must tell you — I 
couldn’t this morning. I went and fetched it from her room 
meaning to give it you directly you had finished your lunch. I 
wanted you to eat first. I don’t know what is in it but I prom - 
ised — ” She went on with the story, with growing distress, 
watching his face change and darken, and the light die out of his 
blue eyes. 

“Give it to me.” His voice was harsh. 

She passed it over, then rose to her feet. She could not stay 
there and watch him read it. A man would want to be alone — 
she felt it instinctively. And she was right. Mark made no 
effort to detain her as she moved away across the sand, resisting 
the impulse to glance back. 

The storm clouds were joining now. Only a faint line of blue 
remained between the heavy banks. Suddenly a fork of light 
split them, dazzling, as though it pierced sky and sea like the 
thrust of a sword. There followed a clap and an angry peal that 


172 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


thundered against the darkened cliffs and was taken up by the 
hills in a series of echoes that swept inland up to the heights of 
Lidding Moor, leaping from quivering rock to rock, to sink into 
a sullen silence. 

A second flash followed the first, this time from the west, and 
the horizon grew blurred, like the lined-in portions of an en- 
graving, with horizontal shafts of rain. They blotted out the 
world beyond, isolating the peaceful scene like a veil stretched 
between England and France. Was it a presage of that which lay 
in the long envelope? And, if so, how would Mark act? 

All the feminine nature in her was clamouring for a reprieve, 
but the stronger side of her character thrust it aside. Mark must 
go. Surely, with a clearer vision Miss Vallance would understand 
and forgive? 

On went Sabine with dragging feet. Reaching the boundary 
of rocks where the cliff shelved down to meet the sea, she stopped 
and leaned up against it, her face turned towards the water. 

If he felt himself bound by those last wishes? What then? 
Into her mind rose up the story of Sophie who had placed passion 
before honour. But Sophie, at least, had held the excuse that her 
lover was going to face death, to give his life for his country. 
And neither of them had been married. 

Another flash; Sabine winced. Then she heard hurrying steps 
in the silence after the thunder, and Mark’s voice calling her. 

She turned round. A drop of rain splashed on her face and 
she brushed it off. Mark, the old Mark, stood there, his head 
high, eyes shining. 

“It’s all right.” 

She caught her breath. 

“She doesn’t — ?” 

“No, not entirely. Though it’s rather — pathetic.” He slipped 
a hand through the girl’s arm and impatiently drew her away 
from the rocks. “It’s going to pour — you mustn’t get wet. I’ll 
tell you as we go along.” 

Still dazed and unconvinced, she tried to keep pace vrith his 
stride. He noticed this and shortened his steps. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


173 


“Am I going too fast?” 

“It doesn't matter. Tell me, Mark?” She frowned at him, 
her nerves on edge with the suspense. How slow men were! And 
sparing of words. “She gives in?” 

“No, she doesn't. Poor old Aunt Beth! But she leaves me 
a way out. She asks me as her last request to stay inactive until 
September. It sounds mad, but I know the reason. This was 
written last October. She never believed that the war could 
continue beyond a year at the most. It's been a fixed idea with 
her. I believe some prophecy or other was at the root of it. I 
don't expect she told you, but I knew. All her plans have been 
governed by this from the start, even in her household matters. 
The worst of it is I encouraged it, little thinking this would 
happen. It soothed her when she got excited and as she never 
read the papers — the war news, that is — there was nothing to 
undeceive her. Most of her friends knew her views, that she was 
a Quaker, and were tactful. Here's the rain!” He pulled off 
his coat and wrapped it round the girl's shoulders. “Yes, you 
must” — as she protested — “you've only that thin silk jersey.” 

She yielded, touched by his care of her. 

“Then you won't go — until September?” 

“No. I've thought it all out. My conscience is clear. It's 
her last request. I owe it to her. But nothing shall prevent me 
later. It's barely more than eight weeks — a month longer than I 
intended. You approve?” 

She turned in the narrow cutting where the rain was already 
settling the sand. 

“Approve?” There were tears in her eyes. “It's a respite — ” 
Her voice broke. 

Suddenly, glancing at her, he realized the price of her courage. 
He drew the coat closer about her, imprisoning her arms beneath 
and gazed down into her moved face. 

“It's women like you who are winning the war. Their inspira- 
tion as wives and mothers.” 

His words acted as a tonic. She tried to laugh. 

“That's absurd! It's the soldiers — God bless them! I'm 


174 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


not a wife.” She paused, then added under her breath, “Should 
I make a good mother?” 

“The best.” His voice was low and husky. 

She looked past him, her cheeks flushed. The thunder crackled 
overhead and Mark started, releasing the girl. 

“It’s raining.” 

This inane remark — for the downpour had been lashing their 
shoulders during the whole of the brief halt — simultaneously 
touched their humour. 

“You don’t say so!” Sabine laughed. 

Mark joined in helplessly. It was the reaction from their 
suspense. 

“Come along! We’ll keep out in the open and home through 
the kitchen garden — give the trees a wide berth. It’s better 
to get soaked than struck.” 

Arm in arm, with lowered heads, they crossed the combe, 
climbed a fence and dropped into a bed of carrots. 

“Mashing them,” Mark explained as he dusted the soil off his 
knees. “I don’t often come a cropper! I suppose pride must 
have a fall.” 

Sabine had landed on her feet, laughing at him as he slipped. 
They both glanced up at the house and their smiles vanished. 
Mark looked guilty, the girl beside him merely thoughtful. 

“You cut across by the lawn.” Mark spoke in a hushed voice. 
“I want to have a word with Steve. Hurry up!” For a blue 
flash with a simultaneous peal of thunder seemed to explode 
right over their heads. “Go, dear!” His face was anxious. 
“And change at once.” 

Sabine obeyed, with a quick: 

“You, too.” 

Dillon, her face pressed to the window, was praying fervently 
to the Saints to protect her darling. She feared lightning. Pres- 
ently she saw the girl, running swiftly towards the porch, pull up 
before a rose-bush to tear off a dark red bud. 

Dillon tapped, in vain, on the glass. 

“An’ catchin’ her death of cowld,” she grumbled. “Besides 
the danger of bein’ struck!” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


175 


But the culprit had her own way. Triumphant, the wet flower 
in her hand, she reached the house and cast off Mark’s dripping 
coat. When she came to Miss Vallance’s door, she opened it and 
slipped in on tiptoe. She laid the fragrant offering beside the 
meekly folded hands and stood for a moment looking down at 
the ivory face between the lilies, so mysteriously dignified and 
divorced from the tyranny of life. 

Where had she gone? Could a message reach her? 

Sabine bent down solemnly and whispered it: 

“Forgive me! I didn’t mean to misjudge you. I’m sorry” 
She tiptoed out. 


Busy days followed fast, after the old lady had been laid in the 
Vallance vault. She was back once more at Lidding St. Mary, 
and two villages followed her in loyal respect on her last sad 
journey. 

Lady Gull’s magnificent wreath with the card much en evidence 
elbowed on the heavy bier primitive posies gathered at dawn 
in many a humble cottage garden. 

‘ f Such a fuss,” her ladyship fumed. “She might ’ave been the 
old Queen! And the coffin carried by fishermen — most of them 
in their dotage. I thought they was going to drop it once!” 

“Pratt’s boy was all over spots,” said Henrietta vindictively, 
“and the church never ventilated. Measles — I’m sure of it! 
I shall write and report it. I told his rector the same day, and 
his son who’s just home from abroad had the impertinence to 
laugh! I must say that the people here are hardly civilized.” 

“Ah, it was different at Bradford.” Lady Gull sighed pro- 
foundly. “I often wish — ” 

Henrietta checked her. 

“There you go! I’m sick of Bradford. If only you’d assert 
yourself. You stood aside as we went in for Lady Mallison to 
pass and she didn’t even say ‘thank you’! I wish you’d remember 
papa’s the Squire.” 


176 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Oh, I never do right!” said Lady Gull. “I haven’t had your 
education! But I married before I was eighteen.” She trundled 
out with the last word. 

A few days later in the village she tried to intercept Sabine 
and learn details of the will. 

“You must ask Mr. Vallance,” the girl replied at the end of a 
breathless string of questions. “Catch him before he joins up. 
He’ll be off as soon as things are settled. Didn’t you know?” 
She smiled sweetly, for Lady Gull had given a gasp. “I thought 
I explained to you that he only remained on account of his aunt 
and her serious condition of health. Now he’s free to do as he 
likes. He’ll make a fine soldier, won’t he? Good-bye, I mustn’t 
stop. Did you ever find out who clipped the peacocks?” 

From this casual shaft of mischief there arose the amazing 
legend that Mark Vallance himself had mutilated the birds! 
Only a mind like Lady Gull’s could have leapt to this conclusion. 
She could “put two and two together,” she told Henrietta tri- 
umphantly. They discussed it at the dinner table before the 
pair of solemn men, and the butler retailed the story later for the 
benefit of the servants’ hall. From thence it circulated swiftly 
through the village to Liddingcombe. 

Mrs. Pedlar, “down-the-lane” — a title to distinguish her from 
Mrs. Pedlar “up-along” — first heard the report and was furi- 
ously indignant. Mark called to see her one morning with the 
gift of some useful garments; for Miss Vallance’s simple ward- 
robe was being distributed among the cottagers, according to her 
last instructions. 

With the loose tongue of old age, Mrs. Pedlar babbled it forth 
between her blessings, one wrinkled hand, in sympathy, laid upon 
Mark’s arm. 

He soothed her, inwardly scornful. Seeing that tears were not 
far from the blurred old eyes, wistfully resting on his aunt’s well- 
remembered shawl, he added, with open mischief: 

“I expect her ladyship is to blame. The tail feathers would 
look fine in a new picture hat!” 

Mrs. Pedlar stored the remark and repeated it to her cronies, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


177 


including the aunt of the kitchenmaid at Lidding St. Mary, now 
recovered but aware of Lady Gull’s suspicions. At a well-chosen 
moment she informed the lady’s maid. For Hortense had fallen 
under the ban of her mistress’ wrath that evening. The French- 
woman thought it her “duty,” with a fine show of reluctance, to 
bring it to her lady’s ears. 

The situation was not improved by Pratt’s boy, suffering from 
nettle-rash — a bitter blow for Henrietta, who had overlooked 
this summer ailment. Driving up with his cart to the back door 
one fine morning, in a shrill voice he conferred with his friend the 
second housemaid: 

“Rackon it du be curious — gulls that turn into peacockses. 
Small wonder the price of eggs be h’up!” Then, with well- 
feigned surprise, “Oh — beg pardon, miss!” For Henrietta had 
straightened her back from a close survey of a punctured tire in 
the outhouse reserved for bicycles and was glowering at him 
wrathfully. “No orders? Much obliged.” 

He rattled off, holding his breath, his face an alarming colour, 
to break out into muffled sobs of joy from the shrubbery. 

Meeting Dillon in Liddingcombe, he stopped to thank her for 
some lotion concocted from elder flowers and presented by her 
to ease his rash. Dillon had “a way with the childer” and a 
mysterious propensity for producing “pear drops” and “bull’s 
eyes” from the depths of her bag. Pratt’s boy grew confidential. 
“Mr. Mark” was his idol. He had “lat ’un have it straight, 
simly.” 

“Measles,” he scoffed. “Yu see, marm, it were close upon 
Rector’s Treat. Might ha’ meant Oi biding tu hame!” 

Dillon reproved in orthodox fashion, opened her bag and took 
out a cone-like package, rather sticky. Pratt’s boy swore to 
“behave” and went off, one cheek bulging. 

Sabine, of course, heard the story. It came round, full cycle, 
to Mark. 

“The young rascal! And Mrs . Pedlar? I never dreamed 
she’d repeat it.” 

“Yet you’ve lived in a village all your life.” She enjoyed his 


i 7 8 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


dismay. “That boy of Pratt's is a darling! He warned me of a 
certain slide just outside the post office last winter. I suspect that 
he had a hand in it — or at least a foot! He's all feet. But he 
didn't warn Henrietta and of course she ‘improved' the occasion. 
I wonder why he hates her so?" 

“He saw her — " Mark stopped dead. 

Sabine watched him under her lashes. 

“She deserves some consolation. I think when you’re in khaki 
that I shall give her a peacock’s feather." 

“So you knew that ? 19 

She nodded her head. 

“Did you think that I loathed her just because she tried to put 
me in my place? Now, about the long meadow. It's to be 
ploughed in the autumn?" 

“Yes. It's the best for the purpose. I’m going to Lidding 
St. Mary to-morrow to see the agricultural committee. There’s a 
meeting. I shall take their advice about the right grain to sow. 
They'll give you help if you require it." 

They settled down to work again. Everything that could be 
done to meet the country's urgent need was put in hand, seriously. 
The old order had passed away, the house breathed the spirit of 
war. Even Dillon was whipped in with schemes for assisting 
village mothers and their all-important babies. 

For Dillon was a fixture too. On that point Mark was firm. 
Johnson, wisely looking forward to a quiet place after marriage, 
had decided that she and Cook could “manage" in Mark’s ab- 
sence, with the help of the kitchenmaid and a certain old Mrs. 
Cumberquick from the village on “odd days." “That Ellen" was 
to go. Dillon would take on the lighter work. 

The Saints seemed to have answered her prayers. With Mark 
away and her dear one guarded from the chance of any gossip — 
or worse, Dillon crossed herself — the future looked roseate. 
She relaxed her silent guard. Miss Sabine had “come to her 
sinses.” 

But love is never wholly quiescent. Even under a burden of 
work it increases or diminishes, and here it had the secret spur 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


179 

of a mutual admiration, growing stronger day by day in the closer 
intimacy. 

Mark was amazed at the power of the girl to acquire and 
assimilate the knowledge gained by him in the long years. Where 
he used his reason alone, she would display an intuition that 
often leaped ahead of him or led to some shrewd suggestion. He 
had never before worked with a woman of his own age and 
modern outlook. Though they would argue ruthlessly over any 
knotty point, he learned to value her opinion. 

For her it was pure delight. She was tasting the joys of 
equality, her brain sharpened by contact with his, and the fruits 
of an experience of ways and means, men and matters, in wider 
fields than his own. 

Mark as a worker appealed to her, touching that side of her 
character which worshipped effort and success. He was wise with 
a man’s slow judgment, his honest contempt for compromise and 
a scamping of labour to save time. Although this roused her im- 
patience in her headlong desire for results, she respected him for 
his sound views — and loved him still more for his weakness 
where generosity came into play. Weak he was undoubtedly with 
many an old cottager perfectly able to pay her rent but begging 
mercy for “a widder.” 

“I’d sooner err on the right side,” Mark would murmer guiltily, 
“It doesn’t make much difference to me, but it means a lot to 
her. Poor old soul — she’s seventy-two! And her husband was 
one of my father’s grooms.” His face relaxed into a grin. 
“Taught me to ride — surely that counts?” 

“And old Humporley taught you to swim. To say nothing of 
Mrs. Cumberquick’s late spouse, who from all accounts instructed 
you in the gentle art of poaching!” 

“Oh, well, she works in the house — scrubs. Have you ever 
seen her hands? How would you like to have hands like those?” 
he asked her, his eyes twinkling. “Humporley can’t work — he’s 
too rheumatic.” 

“He’s taking a cure at the Hunted Stag.” 

“You’re a hard-hearted young woman!” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


180 

“I’m your bailiff now.” She smiled proudly. “That makes a 
difference. As Lady Gull impressed on me in her dignified way: 
‘Business is business’!” 

“But I’m not a business man,” said Mark. His voice was 
faintly arrogant. “One has to be brought up to it to know how 
to turn the screw.” 

“Every one should be brought up to'work.” 

“Like you?” He surveyed her wickedly. 

“I’m a woman.” She tried to look severe. 

“So’s Henrietta. At least — ” He smiled 

“I’ll take your word for it,” laughed Sabine. 


CHAPTER XVI 


S ABINE sac at the far end of the hazel grove looking over 
the combe. It was a favourite haunt of hers when she 
wished to be undisturbed. 

A pair of beech trees fringed the wood, their roots emerging 
from a bank beneath which a little brook, wide in the rainy 
season but now a mere trickle of water, held its own manfully 
against the encroachment of thirsty plants, deep blue forget-me- 
not, meadow-sweet and ragged robin and, in a patch beyond the 
shade, the insolent thrust of the purple flags. 

It was that still hour of the day which follows the setting of 
the sun, the parched earth calling for dew. A light wind stole 
up from the sea, stirring the burdened spikes of gorse, and Sa- 
bine raised her head for a moment from a letter she was reading 
to enjoy its cool touch on her face. She was in a rebellious mood. 
There had come a lull in active work and with it the full realiza- 
tion of the parting that lay ahead. ChristabePs letter, on her 
knee, full of youthful enthusiasm, straining towards the unknown 
future, seemed to add the last touch to her own hopelessness. 
Three weeks had passed swiftly; in another five Mark would be 
gone and life become a perpetual twilight, merging into the dark- 
ness of fear. 

The breeze fluttered the page in her hand. She smoothed it 
out impatiently and returned to its contents. 

Christabel was still in England, her leave prolonged in conse- 
quence of a sharp attack of measles that prevailed in the village. 

She was out of quarantine but not yet fit for work, and the doc- 
tor had ordered a change by the sea. She proposed to join her 
friend Sophie at Ventnor for a week or so, had “wangled” this, 

181 


i 82 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


so she wrote, with the connivance of Mrs. Liddell. The letter ran 
on hurriedly: 

You'll be glad to hear that things there are decidedly for the 
better. Laura , the married sister living in California , has offered 
to make a home for Sophie . Her husband is a fruit farmer , a 
match which the Liddells opposed at the time as they didn't 
think it good enough . Anyhow they've turned up trumps and 
Sophie is independent y so there's no question of charity. The 
dead man left a will in her favour and she has a small , settled 
income. It was rather quaint when this fact came out. Mrs. 
Liddell was divided between a fear of further scandal and relief 
over money matters. She has always been fond of the dibs. So 
now she's backing up her daughter on the grounds that the wind- 
fall is his u atonement" ! 

Sophie is to stay at Ventnor until things are quite settled, then 
she sails for the New World. She's going to adopt his second 
name and call herself u Mrs . Vernon" and no one will know out 
there. She'll be one of the crowd of war widows. Naturally she 
doesn't want to make it unpleasant for her sister — or for her 
people at home. They've kept the facts very dark. She's sup- 
posed to be suffering from a e nervous break-down' — that useful 
complaint! — and is not allowed visitors. They're packing her 
off with a nurse to some quiet rooms in Ventnor next week and 
I'm to join her. Can't you come and make a third? Do! It 
would be so jolly. And I know you'd be good to Sophie. You'd 
like her too — she's such a dear! Awfully brave and going to 
make the best of things for the child's sake. In a sense she is 
really a war widow. Do you understand? 1 can't explain. But 
when 1 see some of the married women whose husbands are at 
the Front, and the way they amuse themselves with men and get 
off scot free, knowing what they'd say of Sophie if they heard 
her history, it makes me pretty scornful. You can do anything 
when you're married, but the whole world's down on a girl! It's 
not fair play, is it, Sabine? You're so broad-minded — it's a 
relief to write to you. In this place I feel eternally pent up, and 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


183 


Elsie is like a cold sponge — no, that's too invigorating! A 
tepid one — Arthur's the soap l He kisses Elsie on her forehead 
with an air of benediction and Elsie blushes. They call that love! 
Now, do come to Ventnor. Wire — I'll see about rooms. 

Your devoted, 

C. L. 

A “war widow”? Suddenly there flashed up in Sabine’s mind 
a vivid picture of herself in Sophie’s place, waiting, hoping — 
remembering long hours of love. 

It caught her vivid imagination and her fancy played around 
it, linking the loose threads together and weaving a forbidden 
romance. It seemed perilously simple. To have one perfect 
month with Mark, in defiance of the world’s opinion but hidden 
away from curious glances; to give without stinting to the man 
who had been cheated of happiness. 

Her breath came quickly at the thought. She leaned forward, 
clasping her knees, her eyes fixed on the dark blue stripe dividing 
calm sea and sky as the light waned on the horizon. Perhaps — 
she remembered Sophie and the link between the living and dead 
— he might not be the last Vallance. 

Breaking across her line of vision, between the patches of vivid 
gorse, came a tall, virile figure with an easy stride, a small boy 
perched aloft on his shoulders, homeward bound over the combe. 

Mark — and the miracle of a child! Her dream had ma- 
terialized. She was swept by a wave of superstition, for it 
seemed like a sign against the heavens. 

The glimmer of her white skirt on the russet of the bank caught 
his attention. He changed his course. She could see now one 
brown hand clasping the urchin’s bare knee. The foot beneath 
was roughly bandaged with a folded handkerchief, but the small 
boy was in his glory. His shrill voice reached her ears and an 
answering laugh from the man. As he came nearer, he hailed 
Sabine: 

“Is your Dilly in? Here’s a patient for her. I found him in 
the Sandy Lane pretending to be a wounded soldier. Eh, 
Tommy?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


184 

The victim giggled. Mark stopped at the edge of the brook 
and stood there looking across at Sabine. 

“Some careless fool had broken a bottle and left the pieces in 
the sand. This hero cut his foot on one, so I’m giving him a lift 
home — can’t have a good man lamed! I thought if Dillon could 
bathe the place and make sure the glass was out, with the help, 
perhaps, of a slice of cake, he’d be fit for active service again.” 
He glanced up at the little brown face, but the child had suddenly 
turned bashful. “Cut his tongue out too,” said Mark. “It’s 
been a pretty heavy engagement. He’s a sergeant — so he tells 
me — in the Liddingcombe Light Foot. I daresay you’ve seen 
the regiment drilling?” 

“I have.” Sabine smiled at the pair. “Give him to me?” She 
held out her arms, her eyes full of a wistful light. 

“No, I’m going to take him to Dillon. Shall I find you here 
when I come back?” 

She nodded her head. 

He hesitated, watching her narrowly. 

“Shall I come back?” 

“Yes — if you like. It’s cooler now the sun’s gone down.” 
She was struggling against a curious shyness that held an under- 
current of guilt. 

“Quite cool.” He looked mischievous. “I noticed it. Come 
along, Tommy! We’re dismissed for the present. Salute the 
lady!” 

The child obeyed with a solemn, military gesture of his grimy 
little paw. 

“That’s right. Now for hospital! Au revoir, Miss Fane.” 

His voice was light, but as he passed her, striding the ditch, 
he glanced sideways. She read in his face a silent appeal. There 
was some fresh trouble. 

“I’ll be here.” She smiled gravely. 

She watched him pass along the path, pause and lift the boy 
down, mindful of the low branches, settling him easily in his 
arms. The action betrayed his love for children and the expe- 
rience gained by his brief fatherhood. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


185 

The lint-coloured head lay cradled in the crook of his left 
arm, his right was passed beneath the knees, the hand supporting 
the small thigh against the patched, tattered breeches. For the 
child was of the poorest class. Sabine knew him well by sight, 
one of a rough brood in a broken-down cottage by the sea, hardy 
and unwashed, struggling up like the wiry pinks in the clefts of 
the rocks, bare-footed, dodging cuffs from the over-worked mother 
yet happy in his free life, filled with the hope of adventure. 

It was for this younger generation that men were dying across 
the water; that Mark before many months had passed would 
take his chance with the rest. 

If he never returned? 

She clenched her hands in sudden anger and rebellion. There 
was no glimmer of consolation; she would have sent him to his 
death. Sophie could feel a secret triumph sting through her lonely 
shame. Those memories were not for Sabine. Unless — There 
was still a month left. The temptation rose, overpowering. 

She stared out through the deepening twilight, facing it de- 
liberately, weighing ideals in the balance, building the frail edi- 
fice of hope and desire, stone on stone. It might have been Fane 
himself, planning an amorous adventure, with the same warm 
light in his dark eyes and obstinate upward tilt of his chin. 

A war widow? Married in haste to a soldier met on leave. 
How and where? At Ventnor, of course, in her visit to the two 
girls. With a honeymoon spent at Niton, in that discreet little 
hotel where she had once stayed with her father during a yacht- 
ing cruise, land-bound by stormy weather. 

Her cheeks warmed as she saw herself with Mark in that 
peaceful village, out of the track of noisy tourists yet in touch 
with the larger town which would serve her for a postal address. 
Sophie would forward letters. 

She began to envisage the phantom “husband”; an Australian 
with no links in this country but a desire to see the spot where 
his mother had been born. The growing enthusiasm for the 
fighting powers of his splendid race, that had strengthened the 
tie of common blood and held England proud and grateful, would 


i86 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


add romance to the hasty match, a common occurrence in these 
times. Yes, he must be an Australian. She felt an absurd fond- 
ness for this mythical and gallant partner. 

It would be simple later on to dispose of him after some sharp 
engagement in which the Colonial forces suffered, ever in the 
van of action. For who would study the lengthy lists to verify 
a trooper’s death, save those painfully concerned? As a widow, 
too, her position would be strengthened at Liddingcombe. It 
would give her the right to remain on as housekeeper if Mark 
returned, wounded, or at the end of the war. In the fishing 
village a widow stood for all that was respectable. 

The question of letters cropped up. The “husband” must write 
from the Front, to bolster up the thin story. She knit her brows. 
It would be easy once Mark’s training were over and he “some- 
where in France.” He could use his left hand as a blind to the 
household and the post-mistress. But, meanwhile, how could 
she fill the gap? 

Then she remembered. For some months past she had cor- 
responded fitfully with a servant long in her father’s employment, 
a “lonely soldier,” without relations, and grateful for her interest. 
She could send him envelopes for his replies, addressed by Mark! 
She smiled at the thought. It was comical to picture Walters, 
that sedate valet, impersonating unconsciously Fane’s “son-in- 
law.” The man had complained latterly of being moved on out 
of reach of a Y. M. C. A. hut and apologizing for scraps of 
paper. She would keep him well supplied! Mark, later, could 
alternate his two methods of handwriting and amplify his cor- 
respondence. That gift of his would come in useful. Her active 
brain forged ahead searching for fresh flaws in the scheme. 

Dillon? She bit her lip. 

It would be hard to deceive the trustful old woman. In due 
course she might be told, but not at first — it was too risky. 
Dimly she saw the faithful soul bound to her by a further tie. 
If Sophie’s fate should be Sabine’s, she could count upon Dillon. 
The old nurse would never be proof against the charm of a little 
child; she would pass on her allegiance. Dillon was no obstacle. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


187 


Granted this, what stood in the way? 

Only Sabine’s principles. She knew herself to be stronger than 
Mark. He would give way under pressure. And what were “prin- 
ciples”? How far did her moral code depend on conviction as 
divorced from custom? She set herself to this serious problem. 

She had known so many men and women honourable in the 
eyes of the world and yet frail where love was concerned. There 
was her father, for instance, faithful during her mother’s life- 
time, scrupulous in his business dealings, just, sensitive and proud, 
yet unprincipled from an ethical standpoint where a woman 
roused his passion. Could one set down rigid rules of right and 
wrong irrespective of circumstance and temperament? No harm 
had seemed to follow Fane’s varied fond adventures. Every one 
had loved the man and he had died like a saint. Even Dillon 
could not condemn him. 

Fane had sometimes profited by his conquests — a moot point 
— w T hereas Sabine had nothing to gain. And nothing to lose — 
so it seemed to her — but the knowledge of her virtue. Religion 
she scored out. Between Dillon’s quaint mixture of superstition 
and prayers to the Saints and her father’s cheerful agnosticism, 
Sabine’s creed amounted to a pleasant belief that the Church of 
England was suitable to the climate! It ran side by side with 
the Law, a negative source of good in the land, but void of any 
inspiration. The fact, unrealized abroad, of the constant schisms 
in the camp, with the remainder of tin chapels in every village 
she visited, pointed the last disillusion. There were no such 
cracks in the older Faith. What was wrong with the Church of 
England, when clever thinkers broke away, swelling the ranks of 
the Non-conformists, and brilliant preachers constantly were 
gathered into the folds of Rome? Some worm lay at the root. 
She had always hated half-measures, and the complacency of the 
clergy she had met, in view of their crumbling powers, filled her 
with contempt. Why couldn’t they take the matter in hand, figure 
out their differences, and weld the whole Church into one, a 
living force in the land? 


i88 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


No, the religion of her childhood, taught on the traditional 
plan of blindly accepting mysteries as a proof of her “belief,” 
could not affect her judgment now. 

The choice stood clear in her mind. An unlawful union, sancti- 
fied by a love of which she held no doubt, at the cost of her 
honour — that “breathless moment” seized by Sophie — or the 
dragging, unsatisfied days with little hope in the future should 
Mark survive the war. Kitchener had said that it would last 
three years. Sabine shuddered. Time, inexorable, held no brief 
for procrastinating lovers. 

“Youths years how few; age how sure.” The words of the 
long-dead Emperor rose up in her mind. Beauty and the joy of 
life would pass like the stocks and tobacco flowers, leaving no 
poignant perfume behind. Life, at its best, lay in gripping the 
present, fearless of the past and future. 

A twig snapped in the silent wood followed by the sound of 
steps. 

“Well?” Mark sat down beside her. “Dilly’s looking after the 
boy. HI take him home later on. A nice child — they’re not 
always grateful. Why should they be?” It was evident that he 
was voicing his passing thoughts. “They’ve nothing, and it must 
seem to them that we have everything we want! Just through 
the accident of birth.” 

“Is it an accident?” Her eyes ran over him. 

“I suppose so. Though it works both ways. I’ve met many a 
labouring man who was more truly a gentleman than others in 
my own class. Birth’s not everything, but I think that refined 
surroundings and the necessity — overlooked sometimes, I’ll ad- 
mit — to set an example of decency — that’s not the word, but you 
understand? — through succeeding generations must tell in the 
end. It narrows down to an ideal: to do nothing unworthy of 
your name — the feeling that a regiment has when it sees its 
tattered flags. It’s not only out for loot. That’s where I mistrust 
the new class that’s springing up, the Gull class. Profiteers!” 
His voice was scornful. “They’ve won their position by sharp 
methods. I’d far sooner see old Sam from the Hunted Stag at 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


189 


Lidding St. Mary — for all his occasional love of the bottle! He's 
genuine. He’d play fair. I heard a story this morning that 
simply made my blood boil. You know old Wooten — that white- 
haired man who potters round the churchyard and whips up 
truants for the choir? Well, Gull engaged him to help in the 
mowing — they’re short-handed just now — bargained with him 
for three days at seven and sixpence, and kept him at it! He 
paid Wooten in half-crowns. Coming home the poor old chap 
dropped one of them through a hole in his trousers’ pocket. 
Early on Sunday morning he searched for it along the drive, 
without result, and met Gull coming back from communion. 
He explained dolefully what had happened. Said Gull: ‘Why, 
that must have been your half-crown I picked up near the 
Lodge’? He seemed highly amused at it. Wooten waited pa- 
tiently and what do you think Gull did?” 

“Returned it of course.” 

“Not he! Explained that he’d put it in the plate and followed 
it up by remarking that the offertory was for the poor, so Wooten 
would still benefit by it! That’s his idea of humour. He never 
gave the old chap a penny, but told him to be off home and see 
that his wife mended his trousers. Swine!” Mark looked mur- 
derous. 

“It’s unbelievable!” said Sabine. “A case of pure robbery.” 
She paused for a moment, then added softly, “I hope you’ve not 
forgotten, Mark, to enter that half-crown in the accounts.” 

He gave her a guilty side glance. 

“Or five shillings?” she persisted. 

She met his eyes and they both laughed. 

“The fact was I hadn’t change.” His voice was apologetic. 
“Well, dash it all, I’ve money now. Though I need it.” His 
face darkened. 

“Tell me?” She slipped a hand into his. 

“I’m worried. I don’t know what to do. I had a letter this 
afternoon from my wife’s sister — Sybil never writes direct. The 
old story — short of funds. Of course they’ve seen my aunt’s 
death in the papers.” He stopped abruptly. 


190 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“But you won’t be imposed upon,” said Sabine. 

“I don’t know. There’s a reason. It seems that my wife is 
ill. Her sister puts the matter bluntly. Sybil has taken badly 
to drugs. It’s been going on for several years and now she’s in 
a hopeless state. The doctor attending her wants her to go into 
a home as the only chance. So the sister says! She has left the 
stage and run into debt heavily. It means my clearing every- 
thing up and paying the cost of the cure. If it’s true — that’s 
the question? I think I shall run up to town and look into 
matters myself. But I dread it.” His voice sank. “I’ve never 
set eyes upon Sybil since the week that the boy died. That 
child to-day brought it back.” 

“My dear.” She smoothed the hand in her own that tightened 
its hold gratefully. 

He stared ahead over the gorse. 

“He died in my arms — I was all alone. I’d sent the servant 
for a doctor and the little nurse to the theatre to beg my wife to 
return as soon as she could get away. She had the message right 
enough, but she went on to a supper party and never turned up 
till all was over. I was at my wit’s end. The doctor was out 
at a confinement — they didn’t know when he’d be back — and 
the maid went in search of another. He came too late. He told 
me that a hot bath might have saved the boy. His mother would 
have known — but she didn’t care! Her one idea was to win 
pleasure and admiration. I held her responsible for his death. 
I do still. And now I’m asked to give her a last chance — pro- 
long her life, at any cost.” A bitter smile curved his lips. “Con- 
sidering what her ‘happy release’ would mean to me, it’s almost 
funny!” 

“To us ” said Sabine. She stiffened, vexed, watching his face. 
“You’ll agree?” 

“Yes, if the story’s true. I’ve got to. She’s my wife.” 

He waited. No word came from the tense figure by his side. 
At last he gave her a nervous glance. 

“You don’t approve?” His voice was anxious. 

“Yes, I approve. On one condition.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


191 

He saw the colour steal up to the roots of her shining hair. 
Her eyes fell before his own. 

“What condition?” 

“I’ll tell you later.” 

He watched her wonderingly, trying to probe her secret 
thoughts. She seemed miles away from him. 

“When will you go up to town?” 

He guessed she was planning something. She had the intent 
expression he knew of old in their work together. 

“Not this week — probably next. Why?” 

She glanced down at ChristabePs letter upon her lap. 

“Because Fve had an invitation — I was wondering if you 
could spare me. To stay with two girls at Ventnor. It’s a 
curious history. Fd like to tell you” — she hesitated — “although 
I mustn’t mention names. I want to have your opinion.” 

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. So this was what was troubling 
her. 

“Go ahead. I’ll listen.” 

Absently he gathered up the beech-nuts from last year that 
lay in the soft dust of the bank, as Sabine, carefully choosing her 
words, embarked on Sophie’s tragic adventure. Once he raised 
his head, frowning, when Sabine laid stress upon the dead sol- 
dier’s love for the girl, then checked himself: 

“He’s killed, you say?” 

She guessed his unspoken verdict. 

At last she paused, the story ended, and stole a furtive glance 
at Mark, cracking the brittle nuts with their perished kernels 
methodically between his strong brown fingers. 

“Do you blame her?” 

“I’d blame him if the poor chap were alive.” He spoke with 
a man’s reluctance to convict one of his own sex in a matter of 
morality, avoiding comment on the girl. 

“Well, / don’t. She has something left. Memories to last her 
days — and the one desire of her life.” 

He was startled by the sombre passion that rang out in her 
voice. He temporized: 


192 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“It’s a dreadful position — for a young girl. Alone like that.” 

A short silence followed his words. Sabine was mustering all 
her courage. Mark, deeply uncomfortable, was longing to change 
the subject, aware of its subtle inference. She heard the crisp 
crack of a nut split open, then his explanation. 

“Hullo! Here’s a Philippine. That’s lucky, isn’t it?” He 
passed the half across to her. “You must wish,” and laid it in 
her palm. 

She closed her eyes. After a second she whispered: 

“I have wished.” 

He looked at her curiously. 

“Tell me what?” 

“Shall I?” Her heart was racing with fear and hope. The 
shrivelled kernel shook in her hand. 

Her mood seemed to infect Mark. 

“Yes.” He leaned nearer her, unconsciously yielding to the 
charm of her close proximity, the faint scent of her hair and the 
subtle air of excitement about her. He studied her averted face, 
the eyes downcast, a slight droop at the corners of her beautiful 
mouth. 

Her eyelids quivered. With an effort she raised them and gave 
him a desperate glance. 

“I wished — that I might be like Sophie.” The name slipped 
out, unheeded by both. “Give all for love and pay the cost.” 

“Sabine! For God’s sake, don’t!” The full meaning of the 
speech swung him away from her in a swift recoil from temp- 
tation. 

She saw it. In her wounded pride a flicker of temper rose to 
her aid. 

“You’re afraid!” Her face was defiant. “If you really loved 
me, you’d understand. It’s the only way — the only proof that 
a woman can give — the last proof.” As she saw the longing and 
pain in his eyes her brief anger died out. Her hand clutched at 
his sleeve, the words poured forth tempestuously. “Do you 
think that I don’t know how you suffer? But you’d never suggest 
such a thing yourself — you couldn’t! It would be an insult. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


i93 


I can, and I dare! I love you with all my body and soul. I can’t 
let you go like this, cheated” — she choked — “to your death. 
But if you went with memories, with the knowledge of how much 
I cared — Oh Mark!” She held out her arms, her whole atti- 
tude a prayer. “I can't — ” The tears poured down. 

He caught her to him hungrily. 

“Sabine, hush! Sabine, dearest — ” 

Her wet cheek pressed to his own, her lips close to his ear, she 
breathed between her stifled sobs: 

“You can’t refuse! You can't shame me! That’s what I 
meant — just now. When you spoke about her and — prolong- 
ing her life. A condition — to — my approval. You love me 
better — it’s only fair! One unforgettable month — together.” 


It was dark when they reached the house. Mark turned, out- 
side the porch, and looked up at the sky where the first pale stars 
of night quivered against their rich madonna’s cloak. 

“What a blue evening!” He drew in his breath. “I shall 
never forget it. Shall you, Sabine?” 

“No. It’s the first of our memories.” She leaned against him, 
drinking in the utter peace of the scene that found an echo in 
her heart: the lawn with its shadows of indigo and the long grey 
wall that slipped away like a furtive ghost into space. 

A little breeze sang through the leaves of the copper beech and 
from afar came the endless murmur of the sea. 

“Shall you ever regret it?” His voice was unsteady. 

“Never.” She lifted her dark eyes in which a hint of tender 
triumph shone through the traces of her tears. “It is the En- 
chanted Garden to-night. It will be, to the end of my life.” 

He bent his head, studying her, conquered but still counting 
the cost. 

“It’s wrong, Sabine. You know that?” 

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips. 

“Ethically — I’ll admit it. But it’s right from my point of 
view. It’s not an impulsive act of folly. It can hurt no one but 
ourselves.” 


194 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“It might.” 

Before he could say more, a soft palm covered his lips. 
“You’re not to! You’re spoiling my blue evening.” 
Gently he took her hand away. 

“If only I’m not spoiling your life?” 

“You’re crowning it.” She had the last word. 


BOOK II 


CHAPTER XVII 


S ABINE sat on the sandy floor of Crusoe’s cave, steeped in 
sunshine that was rapidly drying her bathing-dress and was 
almost too hot for her bare knees. She curled her legs up 
under her and gazed down at the water, so translucent that she 
could see, on the shelf of rock below, some barnacles and a frag- 
ment of glass worn smooth by the waves, gleaming like the 
palest jade. 

It was close upon the noontide hour; for rarely now did she 
bathe before breakfast, lacking the spur of Mark’s presence. 
Nearly three years had elapsed since she had parted from him at 
Niton before he trained for a commission, and in many ways her 
habits had changed. With the birth of her child in the following 
spring she had said farewell to her girlhood, and although, at 
times, her high spirits brought with them a note of youth her 
manner was that of a married woman with its assured dignity. 

Her sophistry had increased and a certain latent love of ease. 
Mark was now a wealthy man through an accident based on the 
fortunes of war, and Sabine shared his prosperity. A distant 
cousin of his mother’s, the widow of a well-known banker, had 
lost her two sons in a week during the struggle round Ypres. She 
had survived them barely a year, leaving a will in Mark’s favour 
which placed him in a better position than he had known in the 
days of his youth and brief squirehood at Lidding St. Mary. 

His first act had been to settle a generous portion upon Sabine, 
making her independent. She had strongly demurred at this, but 
the little son without a right to the name he bore was an argu- 
ment which carried weight, and, besides this, her long course of 
deception, bolstered up by success, had sapped the foundations of 


197 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


198 

her pride insidiously, without her knowledge. From the hour on 
which she had decided to challenge recognized moral laws, Luck 
had stood by her side. She had grown accustomed to the pres- 
ence of the “fickle jade.” Imperceptibly it had lowered the trend 
of her character, finer in less prosperous days. 

Outwardly she was the same, though her attraction had in- 
creased and she was conscious of its power. As the widow of an 
Australian soldier — presumed to have left her a small income — 
she held now a secure position in the little fishing-village, rec- 
ognized not as “housekeeper” to the family so much revered but, 
with the new surprising changes in feminine enterprise, as the 
“man of business” on the estate. Backed up by Mark’s money 
and her own genius for management, she had effected many re- 
forms for the well-being of the tenants. Her beauty, now in its 
prime, her ready tact and experience, with a sympathy for real 
distress that rarely impinged on her judgment, had won her the 
loyalty of the people. She had quietly filled Miss Vallance’s 
place. 

She accepted respect as her due, beating down the voice of 
conscience in its earlier manifestations, convincing herself that 
the results of her secret lapse from a high standard had been 
justified by events. Many a wrinkled old woman dropped her a 
curtsy as she passed, with a pitying thought for the young “widow” 
and, had she chosen to accept the slow but increasing advances 
of the gentry round Liddingcombe, she could have mixed with 
them as an equal. But here wisdom held her back. She looked 
ahead to Mark’s return. The Cathcarts were the only exception 
to the rule she had formed, and since Babs had married young 
Mallison and followed him to join a friend engaged in war work 
at Havre, even this intimacy had lapsed. Obscure, she stood a 
better chance of avoiding awkward explanations. 

This summer, however, had brought a change and congenial 
companionship in the shape of Elizma Taverner (a friend of her 
girlhood days) with the famous surgeon whom she had married, 
well-known as a leader in eugenics. They had taken a small 
house near the river. Taverner had been overworking and was 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


199 


badly in need of a rest and they both loved the quiet place, living 
an open air life and wrapped up in their only child, a beautiful 
boy in his fourth summer. 

Elizma was very musical, a strong link between her and Sa- 
bine that revived pleasant memories of their meeting at Viareggio. 
Introduced by a Roman friend, Sabine had speedily become per- 
sona grata at the villa next to theirs, leased by Miss Lee to avoid 
the hot months at Fiesole where the pair lived for most of the 
year. Even in those days, Elizma’s talent for the violin had 
marked her out among amateurs, and Sabine, fond of accom- 
panying, a brilliant and clever pianist, had proved a decided ac- 
quisition in the small English colony. It was through her account 
of Liddingcombe that the Taverners had chosen the place for 
their summer holiday, avoiding Polrennick, Elizma’s property in 
Cornwall which was in the hands of workmen. 

Sabine’s child had been born in town at a nursing-home recom- 
mended by these old friends of hers, to whom she had turned for 
advice. Orde Taverner’s influence had secured her the best of 
attention, and in the days of convalesence Elizma, a near neigh- 
bour, had loaded little kindnesses upon the young and lonely 
mother. She knew nothing of the real facts. The story told 
seemed a little mysterious after the old life of the Fanes, but she 
had learnt the wisdom of silence. A very broad-minded woman, 
she had been through bitter times herself, hardly used as a child 
under the stern rule of Miss Lee. The romance of her sudden 
marriage had brought disaster in its wake, now happily tided 
over * 

This morning she had bathed with Sabine and was now in 
possession of the tent whilst the other, loth to leave the water, 
had swum out to her favourite haunt. The two children were with 
their nurses in the shade of the rocks; Dillon, and a certain 
Brigitta whom Elizma had brought from Italy, a faithful and de- 
voted creature with a wrinkled olive skin and expressive eyes, 
black as sloes. Between her and the Irishwoman a quaint friend- 
ship was strengthening, in defiance of the barrier caused by Brig- 
♦ See The Individual, by the same author. 


200 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


itta’s broken English and Dillon’s strange turns of speech. The 
religion they shared was a link between them, tinged in the 
Italian’s case by a humour that verged on the scepticism so often 
patent among Tuscans. It found an echo in the naive supersti- 
tion and shrewd common sense of the old Irish nurse. They both 
had a habit of “risking” a prayer to their favourite Saint without 
any blame being attached if it met with no response. The Saints, 
too, must have “days off,” wearied by human intercession and the 
selfishness of their clients. It was like “il Lotto,” Brigitta ex- 
plained, well worth the constant gamble on the chance of a 
number turning up! 

Dillon had been to Italy many times with the Fanes and was 
therefore less insular and free from local prejudice than most of 
the Taverners’ household. Brigitta found her “simpatica” 
Dillon, returning the compliment, told her she was a “woman of 
sinse.” They both were devoted to their charges. Elizma’s child, 
little “Roger-Lee,” with his red-gold curls and sunny smile, was 
a good foil for “Anthony,” as Sabine had named her son. 

“Short for Mark Anthony,” she had written to his father, re- 
membering his school nickname. 

He could walk now without help, a rather serious little person 
with his mother’s dark colouring and the clean-cut limbs of Mark. 
Roger-Lee would prattle gaily, and Anthony would study him 
with wonder and a slight mistrust, willing to play when he chose, 
but resenting familiarity! They were a source of amusement 
together to their interested mothers, each secretly admiring the 
superior points of her offspring. Already in the younger child 
was a faint trace of that arrogance which Sabine had approved in 
Mark. He could be led but never driven. Dillon was his humble 
slave. 

She knew the whole story now — had learnt it in the days of 
weakness when Sabine had needed her full comfort. The moment 
had been inauspicious for any tragic condemnation and, little by 
little, habit had worked its accustomed spell, blurring the moral 
issue. She was reconciled to the position, although she still de- 
plored the sin. Undoubtedly Mark’s windfall and his generosity 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


201 


to her “darling” had not been without effect. Poverty was not 
fit for a Fane! Almost she persuaded herself that Sabine was in 
truth a widow, that “Mrs. Cruikshank” she was called and in 
which name she drew her money. Success in the wild adventure 
had seemed to invest it with a certain quality of approval. The 
Saints had once been mortal themselves and her dear one had 
“loved much.” If only the unwanted wife could be wiped out — 
This was her prayer! She held no doubt of Mark’s behaviour. 
He would marry the woman he had wronged. Meanwhile there 
was the secret to guard and the little child whom Dillon adored, 
dependent on her, as Sabine had been, largely for its health and 
comfort. 

Across the stretch of water and beach, Sabine could see the 
holland umbrella, suggesting a giant mushroom, Dillon’s body 
the solid stem. Anthony, with his petticoats bunched into small 
drawers of check-patterned waterproof, was holding out a wooden 
spade with an air of patience whilst Roger-Lee laid down laws of 
architecture as applied to modern forts. A lop-sided eminence of 
sand, with a moat running round it, and one shrimp, that would 
hop out but still survived constant capture, pointed the argu- 
ment. 

Sabine smiled, watching them and twisted sideways so that the 
sun might penetrate her bathing-dress where it clung to her 
shoulders. It was in black spun silk. Everything she wore now 
was of the finest quality, though she still dressed in a simple style 
suitable to her country life. But her love of luxury had deepened 
and the intimate care of her body. 

Her thoughts drifted towards Mark. Although she was very 
fond of her child, maternity had not taken the place of her pas- 
sionate love for the father. Essentially a man’s woman, she 
fretted against his prolonged absence and the caution he showed 
in his censored letters that left her dissatisfied and hungry. 

Mark’s delight in the birth of a son had been shadowed by a 
cloud of remorse. He could not, like the woman he worshipped, 
live entirely in the present. He was responsible for the child and 
he foresaw the days ahead when Anthony, a grown man, must 


202 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


be told the sordid story. Even if his wife died, leaving him free 
to matry Sabine, he could not wipe out the wrong done to his 
own flesh and blood. 

This point of view had somewhat dimmed their one meeting 
since Anthony’s birth. After eighteen months in France, Mark 
had obtained leave. Sabine had met him at Southampton and 
the pair had gone direct to Niton, back to the quiet little hotel 
full of poignant memories. He kept his leave a profound secret. 
No one in Liddingcombe knew of it save Dillon, left in charge of 
the tiny baby. It seemed to the pair too risky to include the 
latter in the scheme, and Mark had never seen his son. Besides 
this, both felt that the presence of the old woman, apprehensive 
and disapproving, would mar the joy of their reunion and tarnish 
it by a feeling of guilt. 

Sabine was thinking of Niton now, the little hotel covered with 
creepers tucked away behind its lawn, above the narrow, white 
road and looking down the slope to the sea, away from the sleepy 
village and its strange link with civilization in the shape of a 
Marconi station on a desolate spur of sandy meadow. This 
respite from her loneliness and her constant fear for Mark’s 
safety had not been wholly a success. It had been a mistake, she 
decided, to have gone back to the same place, notwithstanding the 
pleasant welcome they had received from the owners. Mark’s 
love was as deep as ever, yet she divined a difference. It was no 
longer a breathless adventure on the topmost wave of passion; it 
was more like married life. The war had left its sign manual on 
him. He seemed older, slightly hardened, and prone to fits of 
abstraction after the first transports had passed. His one great 
ambition now, if he came unscathed through Armageddon, was to 
buy back Lidding St. Mary, by hook or by crook, from the Gulls. 
Sabine secretly dreaded the thought. Surrounded by a houseful 
of servants it would be very difficult to keep up her present farce, 
and a check to all intimacy. Unless — 

Whereas, two years before, she would have shrunk from the 
bare thought of an accepted position as “mistress,” she now 
calmly envisaged it. He would not be the first Vallance who 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


203 


had given up the dower house to a frail and fair neighbour in 
defiance of moral opinion. He could adopt Anthony and make 
the child his heir, since the entail had been broken. Money and 
influence worked marvels. Time, too, was a great healer. Many 
illustrious men had been the result of illegal unions. If it came to 
that — Sabine smiled — several ducal families in the land owed 
their position to a fancy of royalty long departed, entailing the 
bar sinister in their protegee’s “noble” coat of arms! Such facts 
could be lived down and the war had slain Mrs. Grundy. Mark 
was very popular and everyone pitied him for his marriage and 
the loss of his little son. There was no need for open scandal. 
She would not live under the same roof but continue to act as his 
bailiff. She could face rebuffs — for the sake of the child. 

She clutched the excuse desperately, aware of the shallowness 
of it, yet persuading herself it was the truth — the main motive 
of the scheme. Yes, it would be for Anthony. Some day, he 
would thank her. 

Sitting there in the sunshine and the glow of her perfect health, 
her beautiful body lax from swimming, her sleek head against 
the wall of the cave with the dark shadows behind her, she looked 
like a Bartolozzi print of a Venus cast up by the sea, lost in 
voluptuous dreams. 

At length, with a start, she roused herself. Time was flying. 
From the tent, Elizma had emerged, waving, and was now play- 
ing with the children. They must all go home to lunch. After- 
wards, in the warm hours when the little folk took their siesta, 
Elizma was coming round with her fiddle to the cool old drawing- 
room and they were to try a new sonata before tea in the garden. 
Life was good. Sabine stretched her white arms above her head 
with a luxurious yawn, then slipped down into the water, warm 
to her skin, yet fresh and buoyant, yielding to her lazy stroke as 
she swam out and headed shoreward. 

The tide had turned. The swell of a wave caught her and she 
gave herself up to its wilful caress, conscious that it altered her 
course but utterly unresisting. Thus Mark had swept her out 
into the full flood of emotion, far from the land-marks of her 


204 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


youth. Whither? She smiled, with the sun in her eyes that 
tilled the air with a golden haze. She left the answer to the gods, 
recklessly happy in the present. For Mark was safe, he still 
loved her, and he always would — she knew her power ! Youth 
was theirs and the joy of life. She did not regret the “breathless 
moment.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


J OHNSON — she still clung to the name although married to 
her sergeant — opened the drawing-room door wide with a 
flounce of her black alpaca skirt and announced unwillingly: 
“Lady Gull!” 

Sabine gave an impatient “Oh,” drowned in a deep-toned chord 
from Elizma’s violin, with a swift side-glance that spoke volumes, 
then rose from her seat. 

“I ’ope I’m not interrupting?” said her ladyship genially. “I’m 
not going to stay ” She held out her hand, fatter than ever, with 
little knobs where her rings strained the tight kid, firmly clasped 
at the wrist with a diamond and ruby bracelet. “How d’ye do? 
Isn’t it ’ot!” 

She sank down on the sofa and sidled forward to the edge, 
aware of the sharp point of her steels. Henrietta had insisted 
lately on longer and firmer corsets, in the face of that tendency 
which her mother referred to as “spreading.” She raised her 
lorgnette and stared at Elizma. 

Sabine introduced the pair. 

“I’ve seen you about,” said Lady Gull with a condescending 
smile. “I ’ear you’ve taken the Ferry ’ouse. I should think 
you’d find it rather poky this weather — and no bathroom ! ” 
“We bathe in the sea,” said Elizma. She was placing her 
violin in its light, crocodile case, drawing a silk scarf across the 
beautiful old varnish and then its quilted satin cover, with “P. G.” 
embroidered in gold. 

“Oh, well,” said Lady Gull, “I suppose it’s all ’abit really. 
Now Vm accustomed to big rooms.” 

Into Elizma’s golden eyes, the best feature of her face with 
' 205 


206 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


their dark pupils and long lashes, stole a little imp of mischief. 
This solid lady promised sport. 

“ I expect it is,” she agreed suavely. 

Lady Gull’s tone became still more patronizing. 

“You take a lot of care of your fiddle. Is it a good instru- 
ment?” 

She was studying curiously the graceful figure by the piano 
in what she privately decided was an “outlandish get-up.” 

For Elizma wore a narrow dress of cretonne, the pattern 
clusters of apple blossom, that fell straight from its yoke and 
was cut in a wide square at the throat — “The same stuff as I 
use for curtains,” her ladyship thought scornfully — with a broad 
hem of deep blue matching the lapis lazuli beads that swung to 
her waist and the long drops in her small, well-shaped ears: 
She had gone back, at Taverner’s wish, to the cropped hair of 
her girlhood, cut straight across her brows and at the nape of the 
neck where it curled inward after the style familiar in mediaeval 
pictures. It suited her pale, pointed face with its little straight 
nose and vivid mouth. 

She leaned up now against the piano like some slim youth, her 
legs crossed, and answered Lady Gull’s question. 

“It’s a Peter Guarnerius.” 

She might just as well have mentioned the name of some ob- 
scure cheese. Lady Gull was unimpressed, but she risked a guess, 
recalling the “Peter.” 

“Oh, English? Well, I think you’re right. Nowadays one 
ought to support home produce. Though they do say” — her 
smile broadened — “that music was ‘made in Germany’!” Out 
came her fat laugh. “They certainly ’ave the best pianos.” 

“They have.” Elizma looked thoughtful. Her glance wan- 
dered across to Sabine who was struggling against her inward 
mirth. 

“And yer ’usband’s a doctor?” said Lady Gull. “You see, I 
know all about you! It’s a small world in these parts. P’raps, 
now Dr. Stonor’s away on ’is ’oliday, Dr. Taverner is here as local 
teaman?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


207 

A faint sound came from Sabine, promptly turned into a 
cough, but Elizma’s expression was almost sad. 

“No,” she said regretfully. “It wouldn’t be any use. Orde 
knows nothing about tea — although he likes good coffee.” 

Lady Gull stared at her. 

“You don’t understand! It’s the expression used when one 
doctor works for another — takes his practice, for a bit. I should 
’ave thought you would ’ave known.” 

“Oh, I see. Unluckily my husband is a surgeon. So we can’t 
get our holidays that way. He is down here for a rest. He has 
been doing some army work in addition to his private practice. 
Otherwise we should go to Polrennick, our little corner in the 
wilds, but I wanted a thorough change for him.” 

Sabine joined in the conversation. 

“They’ll miss you in Cornwall.” 

“They’re too busy.” Elizma smiled. “The place is full of 
Belgian nuns — poor souls, driven from their country! The 
house suits them, because of the chapel. The old priest who was 
there in my aunt’s time is still with us — a godsend! He sees to 
everything and is reconciled at last with the vicar, under the new 
fortunes of war. But now we have another scheme. The nuns 
are in the east wing, chiefly a nursing sisterhood, and we want to 
turn the rest of the house into a convalescent home for nervous 
cases — such as shell shock — after they’re discharged. The 
nuns are delighted and promise to help. They can do the simple 
nursing required and of course we shall have a resident doctor 
who will work under Orde. It will last too, when the war’s over. 
Anyhow, for some time. Meanwhile he’ll run down at intervals. 
That’s the idea.” 

Lady Gull had been holding her breath, ready to burst in. She 
took advantage of the pause. 

“But it must be quite a big place?” 

“It’s straggling,” said Elizma simply. 

“And ’ow many nuns ’ave you got?” Her ladyship looked 
aggressive. She was counting the bedrooms at Lidding St. Mary. 

“Twenty-five — two died. The result of exposure and ill- 


208 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


treatment. When we get a couple of dozen men whose diet is an 
important matter, it will not be so easy. We’ve no shops in my 
village and everything, except poultry, milk and vegetables, has to 
come over by the ferry from a little town across the harbour. I 
send down a good deal from London.” 

“It's a fine scheme,” said Sabine. “But why after they’ve left 
the army?” 

“Well, it’s part of Orde’s eugenic work. Few of the cases are 
really cured and they’re liable to a relapse if they attempt serious 
work. They’d make very doubtful parents — that is, in Orde’s 
opinion — and Heaven knows we have enough children mentally 
deficient! He’s interested in shell shock and new methods for 
dealing with it; ‘suggestion’ and so forth. Don’t think that they 
will be idle! They will do light work on the land and other 
healthy forms of employment. Orde has been experimenting 
with rust-proof wheat and electric culture. Oh, it’s all going to 
be scientific.” She gave a sudden, happy laugh. “I’m always 
afraid that he will try some ‘food of the gods’ on Roger-Lee!” 
She sobered down suddenly. “But don’t you think it’s much 
better than having a great empty house full of shadows and old 
pictures?” 

This touched Lady Gull in a vulnerable part. 

“They’ll ruin your carpets!” Her voice was spiteful. 

Elizma flashed round on her. 

“What does that matter? They’re winning the war and losing 
their lives and their health for us. It’s only decent to pay the 
debt in the nearest way, if you have the means. It’s so painfully 
little one can do!” 

The visitor looked quite scared at this outbreak. Then she 
tossed her flower-burdened hat. 

“Well, you’d better buy Lidding St. Mary! As an annexe!” 
She mopped her face with her handkerchief, lace-edged and 
rather scratchy, and launched her bomb-shell in reserve. “We’re 
leaving ’ere — going to sell it.” She turned to Sabine, “That’s 
why I called. On a matter of business. If I could see you — 
alone — for a minute?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


209 

‘-Certainly.” Sabine stood up. “You’ll excuse me?” she asked 
Elizma* 

But the latter had taken the broad hint. 

“Don’t you move! I have to go and give my good, man his 
tea.” She gathered up a broad-brimmed hat of blue straw with 
a crown of the same bright cretonne and tucked the elastic under 
the thick crop of her hair, then glanced over her shoulder, hearing 
the click of the garden gate. “Why, here he is — come to fetch 
me! Good-bye!” She kissed her fingers to Sabine, bowed to 
Lady Gull and was off through the veranda to meet a tall, grave- 
looking man whose face lit up at sight of her. 

“I’m coming,” they heard her cry. Taverner looked surprised. 
“No, you old duck! Tea at home. You eat too much when 
you’re with Sabine and I can’t bear a fat man.” She slipped one 
arm through his and led him off triumphantly, “Pietro,” her be- 
loved fiddle, tucked securely under the other. 

“ Quite the new type,” said Lady Gull. 

Sabine made no response. She was thinking hard. Here was 
the chance for which Mark had been praying, his old home on 
the market. She knew the Gulls’ methods well; they would try 
to extort a fancy price. It roused her latent fighting powers. 

“So you’re leaving Liddingcombe,” she suggested. 

“Yes. I’m sick of the country and I never cared for the people 
about. We’ve been thinking of it for some time and now Sir 
Joshua ’as bought a house — a fine ’ouse in ’amilton Place. 
That’s really Park Lane, you know.” 

Her listener did not dispute it. Lady Gull felt the need to 
wipe away the faint suspicion of being outshone by Elizma which 
was still rankling in her mind. 

“We shall ’ave a country seat as well, but somewhere much 
nearer town. I’m thinking of Henrietta. She’ll find better 
chances there. They’re more sociable in London and, of course, 
we shall entertain and give largely to charities. They’ll want me 
badly on committees when they sees Sir Joshua’s cheque! ’E’s 
been doing very well lately. But I suppose that most people ’ave 
made money in this war.” 


210 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine, surprised, raised her eyebrows. 

“Is that so? I understood, with the Excess Profits tax — ” 

Lady Gull interrupted with a shrewd chuckling laugh. 

“There's ways and means!” She looked like a squat, mys- 
terious idol, her feet drawn back under the sofa, and showing a 
wide expanse of lap. 

“Anyhow the professional classes have suffered,” Sabine de- 
clared. 

Her ladyship caught her up. v 

“But they've never made money! Who cares for the profes- 
sional classes? It's Commerce now, you mark my word. This 
war 'as killed snobbish distinctions. It's the man 'as can afford 
to live — and live well — that's respected. But to come back 
to where we started. We were wondering, Sir Joshua and I, if, 
now that he seems well to do, Mr. Vallance would like to buy 
back the old place? Of course he’d find it greatly improved, not 
the tumble-down 'ouse it was.” 

“But he's at the Front,” Sabine objected. “It's hardly the 
moment, with all the risk and with no one to succeed him, to 
launch out on a new venture. Land is a doubtful speculation. 
There's the menace of the next Budget.” 

Lady Gull looked taken aback. 

“It's 'is old 'ome — you forget that! All the sentimental value. 
I think he'd jump at the chance.” 

“Do you?” Sabine seemed indifferent. “I'm not quite of 
your opinion. He could have bought Crofton's farm a year ago 
if he had wished to enlarge his property.” 

“But that's not the same as Lidding St. Mary,” Lady Gull 
persevered. “It couldn't 'urt to put it before 'im. We might , 
considering everything, give 'im the first refusal. It would 
seem, some'ow, neighbourly.” 

“You could write and suggest it,” Sabine agreed. 

Her ladyship fidgeted. 

“Wouldn't it come better from you? Seeing that everything 
is left — so I understand — in your 'ands ” She stooped now to 
flattery. “Henrietta was saying that she admired the way you 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


2 1 1 


worked as a sort of lady bailiff — considering your upbringing 
and all. As she says, women do everything now. They’re coming 
at last into their own.” 

Sabine, who had been leaning back in her armchair, sat up- 
right. Her manner changed perceptibly. 

“Am I to understand that this is a definite proposition? If so, 
of course I will tell Mr. Vallance, and lay Sir Joshua’s figures 
before him.” 

Lady Gull looked flustered. 

“We’ve not decided — not at present — on the exact p-p-price,” 
she stammered. “If Mr. Vallance would make an offer?” 

“Ah — ” Sabine relaxed. “I couldn’t trouble him like that. 
He has very little time for letters. It doesn’t enter into my 
province.” 

“Your province l” snapped Lady Gull. “It seems to me you 
rule this ’ouse pretty well as the mistress.” 

Sabine rose to her feet. 

“And is that all?” she asked coolly. 

“There, there,” said her ladyship. “I didn’t mean what you 
mean — I meant — ” She stuck hopelessly. “It’s so ’ot — and 
you go so fast! Just let me get my breath.” After a moment 
she went on. “You want figures?” 

“I want a letter from Sir Joshua naming a definite price. I 
don’t think Mr. Vallance would buy unless it seemed a good 
investment. You must remember his circumstances and the facts 
of the war. Men out there can hardly afford to look — well, too 
far ahead. It’s easier in the present day to buy than to sell 
property — a large estate like Lidding St. Mary, and in an out- 
of-the-way county. To begin with, he has disposed of most of 
the old furniture and everything has risen in price. Then he’s 
alone in the world and he does not require a big house. Still if 
you’ll give me substantial facts — I should want them in Sir 
Joshua’s writing — I will look up the old figures and send Mr. 
Vallance a copy of them. This will help him to decide.” 

Lady Gull slowly rose and moved her body from side to side 
to settle its formidable sheath, one fat hand pressed to her hip 
where a bent steel had produced a “stitch.” 


212 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“You’re very business-like,” she grumbled. “I don’t say that 
Sir Joshua will — but I’ll talk to him about it.” 

Sabine smiled and dropped the subject. 

“May I offer you a cup of tea?” 

“No, thanks.” Lady Gull succumbed to a parting flicker of 
triumph. “I’m expecting Lady Mallison” As she reached the 
door, she added brightly, “I suppose when I’m gone from ’ere I 
shall begin to regret it. Every one’s so friendly now, since they’ve 
’eard we’re on the move.” 

“I’m not surprised,” said Sabine obscurely. “When do you go 
to town?” 

“Soon. That is” — she had made a mistake — “we’re in no 
’urry. It all depends.” With this vague statement, she passed 
out and Johnson saw her to her carriage. 

Sabine heard the horses’ hoofs and caught a glimpse of the 
panama hats above the line of grey wall. A little cloud of dust 
rose up and descended on the hollyhocks and sunflowers in the 
border. Then silence fell again. 

Here was a further success for Mark. And for herself? A new 
adventure. She stood there, lost in thought, unconsciously statu- 
esque in her simple white dress that showed the beautiful lines of 
her figure, her head thrown back, eyes half-closed, conscious of 
the glare without. 

Through it, as the blue gate clicked, came a girl in a com- 
promise between masculine and feminine costume, a post office cap 
on her head. She saw Sabine on the veranda and produced from 
her satchel a telegram. 

“For yu, m’m.” Admiringly her eyes rested on Sabine’s feet 
in their buckskin shoes and silk stockings. 

A cold hand seemed to clutch at the older woman’s heart. 
Mark? In a flash she saw him dead, at least wounded mortally. 

Her fingers shook as she tore open the fateful yellow envelope 
and steadied herself to read the message, turning sideways to 
avoid the gaze of the interested girl. 

A long minute ticked away. She raised her head. 

“There’s no answer.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


213 


‘Thank yu, m'm.” 

“Wait a minute.” Sabine passed into the house and returned. 
“There's sixpence for you.” Her words came out with an effort. 
She looked dazed yet radiant. 

The telegraph-girl, all forgetful of her cherished uniform, 
beamed at Sabine and dropped a curtsy. 

“It be gude news,” she said to herself as she closed the gate 
carefully. It was irritating not to know the contents of the 
telegrams she carried, sometimes for miles; so much so that she 
had discovered a way of breathing heavily on the flap, which 
with the aid of a hairpin loosened it from the envelope. This 
involved a shivering suspense, in the dark shelter of some wood 
and led to much disillusion, such as: “Forwarding goods by 1.30 
train,” from a fishmonger at Exeter. Rarely the longed-for 
romance! But once, a Tommy starting on leave had wired his 
beloved to “name the day.” That, at least, had been worth 
“unsticking!” 

Sabine meanwhile had passed upstairs. At the nursery door 
she tapped gently. Dillon opened it a crack, then came out, 
finger to lip. 

“He's aslape.” She referred to Anthony. “And a trouble it's 
been to get him off.” Her eyes narrowed. “What is it, dearie?” 
She closed the door softly behind her. 

“I can’t tell you out here.” Sabine caught the old nurse by 
the arm and backed into an empty room. It happened to be the 
one in which Miss Vallance had passed away, still left as it was, 
with the inlaid desk on the top of the high chest of drawers. The 
fact brought a new sense of triumph, of permanence and security. 
She leaned down to the old woman, watchful and slightly appre- 
hensive. 

“Dilly, it's come. She's dead — at last! Mark's free to marry 
me.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


I N the weeks that followed, Sabine’s fortune seemed to have 
reached its zenith. Mark acquired his old home at a reason- 
able price, mainly through her offices. The house was to be 
left vacant, in the charge of caretakers, but the fields and gardens 
kept up and the produce sent to hospitals. Sabine was busy all 
day long re-engaging men for the grounds, only too glad to serve 
once more under their old master, most of them veterans remem- 
bering the Vallance rule. It leaked out how cleverly Sabine had 
managed Sir Joshua. Lady Mallison found an excuse for calling 
one day and openly complimented her. It seemed to the whole 
county like a reinstatement of their order. For the Gulls had 
been a sore trial. 

Mothers with marriageable daughters began to long for Mark’s 
return. The feeling was shared by the villagers, seeing a pros- 
perous era before them. They redoubled their attentions to Sa- 
bine, gossiping a little about her, but pleasantly, speculating on 
the post she would fill at Lidding St. Mary. No one would turn 
away a “widder” with her dead soldier’s son — certainly not “Mr. 
Mark.” She was more than ever a fixture among them. 

Meanwhile the only fly in her honey-pot of contentment was the 
postponement of Mark’s leave, overdue and so deeply desired. 
The Germans were making their last bid for victory against the 
troops sorely pressed on the Western front. Few officers could be 
spared; certainly not in Mark’s section. He had been slightly 
wounded, but not enough to earn him a Blighty and was now 
back with his men, in splendid health, so he wrote in hurried 
letters that breathed of love and had slackened a little their 
vigilance since the death of his wife. 

Sabine, playing with her son, wove golden dreams about his 


214 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


2iS 


head, ably assisted by old Dillon. She saw her “darling” the 
Squire's wife — and who more fitted for the position than Fane's 
daughter? — with herself ruling a sunny nursery up at the fine 
old house. The Saints indeed had answered her prayers. Surely 
it was a sign of pardon? There were “sins an' sins,” she decided. 
You had to go back to the cause. In her mistress' case it had 
been the generous impulses of youth. Mark was a “great gintle- 
man” — you couldn’t get away from that! She laid the blame 
to the “ways of Nature”; then qualified the rebuke. Nature had 
given them the child; Anthony, with his bright, dark eyes, en- 
dearing ways and sudden tempers — for wasn’t he just the “little 
master!” Here she would catch him up and hug him as he 
struggled in her arms and ordered her to put him down. But, 
when he raised his rosy face of his own accord and gravely kissed 
her, the old nurse felt her heart “turn over” — so she expressed 
herself to Brigitta. 

Elizma, too, was interested in the fortunes of the house. 

“Will it make any difference to you?” she asked Sabine as they 
sat on the beach one morning after bathing, letting the sun dry 
their hair. 

“In what way?” Sabine was cautious. 

“You’ll stay on?” 

“Oh, yes. I’m very happy in my work.” With averted eyes, 
she picked up a shell and turned it over in her hand. 

“You like Mr. Vallance?” Elizma suggested. She saw the 
colour steal up under her friend’s sunburnt skin and smiled at 
the indifferent answer: 

“He's always been most kind to me.” 

“So that's it,” thought Elizma and changed the subject tact- 
i fully. 

Late that night she confided her hopes to Taverner, as they 
lay in bed listening to the song of the river, rippling over its 
stony course and speeding to its lover, the sea. 

“It would be an excellent match for her,” Orde agreed. He 
admired Sabine; above all, her splendid health. “It's a waste for 
her to remain a widow. She ought to have a dozen children.” 


2x6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Poor girl!” Elizma laughed. “I think you might let her off 
with six, especially if they were boys.” She gazed out through 
the open window into the clear starlit night. “I’ve always won- 
dered about Cruikshank. She doesn’t seem to regret him — but 
you can’t tell.” Romance caught her. “Listen, Orde. I’ve an 
idea.” 

“No?” He turned on his pillow and watched her with amused 
eyes. “Out with it — I’m getting sleepy.” 

“You’re not to sleep for a few minutes! I believe she has been 
in love with Vallance all the time. In that nursing-home, once, 
when she spoke about her husband she called him ‘Mark’ instead 
of ‘Rupert.’ Though I don’t wonder — what a name!” 

“You scandal-monger,” laughed Orde. “You’ll be saying the 
child is Vallance’s next!” 

“It might be,” said Elizma calmly. “If so, that’s why she 
married Cruikshank in such a hurry. It all fits in.” She saw 
that her husband looked annoyed. “No, I don’t mean it — not 
really. But I’m sure there’s some mystery. Perhaps one day 
she’ll tell me herself. Poor Sabine! It’s awfully hard when one 
thinks of the Fanes and the way they lived, with their yacht and 
everything they wanted. He was a charming man too, though 
they said — Oh, well, that’s more gossip! I’ll be sensible now 
and go to sleep. Kiss me good night?” She stretched out an arm 
and drew his head close to hers. “To-morrow we’ll play you that 
new sonata. It’s a dream!” Unconsciously her fingers began to 
strum a favourite bar on his neck. 

“That will do,” said Orde firmly, “or you’ll have to go and 
sleep with Pietro.” 

“Not even jealous!” Elizma sighed. Suddenly she began to 
quiver with suppressed mirth. “I’m sorry, darling. I was think- 
ing of Lady Gull and of patronizing ‘home produce.’ I wonder 
Pietro hadn’t a fit! Well, good night for the last time, my be- 
loved ‘local teaman’.” 

To-morrow they had planned a picnic, with Sabine and An- 
thony, on the moor. The grey pony, getting fat for want of 
proper exercise, was to convey the children and nurses with the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


217 


hamper in charge of Steve, and the older folk were to walk. 
There was a spot that Sabine knew, not far from the road, where 
a small quarry had been commenced and abandoned to Nature’s 
tender mercies. Heavily fringed with gorse and bramble, it was 
like a green opera box commanding the broad open stretch and 
the distant line of blue sea. 

The weather had shown signs of breaking, but a perfect morn- 
ing rewarded Sabine as she rose, unusually early for her, to get 
through her duties betimes. It was the day for churning and she 
went down to the dairy to see that all was in order for the sturdy 
girl from the village who worked under her supervision. Cream 
lay yellow on the pans and the place felt deliciously cool with 
the light filtering through the slats of the green blinds of fitted 
wood. Mark’s handiwork! Sabine’s face grew tender at the 
recollection of the big man in his shirt sleeves bending over his 
carpenter’s bench. How they would work at Lidding St. Mary, 
restoring the grace of the old house! The first thing that she 
would attend to was the stripping of that yellow room; peace at 
last for the vaulted ceiling. 

As she came down the passage to the hall, she could see the 
ancient postman enjoying an early gossip with Johnson. The 
pair seemed to be interested in one of the letters, and Sabine 
caught through the still porch the man’s last words: 

“An old ’un it be, simly.” 

Hearing her step they separated and Johnson passed into the 
dining-room, looking a shade confused. She placed the pile of 
correspondence by the tea-tray, then turned to hunt in the silver 
drawer for some article, going through the neat lines of spoons 
and forks, but without result. 

It seemed to the other that she was pretending, her busy search 
an excuse for loitering whilst Sabine read her letters. She spoke 
to her a little sharply: 

“I’m quite ready for breakfast, Johnson. I want to get to the 
dairy early.” 

“Yes m’m.” In the maid’s glance was a gleam of excitement. 
She hesitated for a moment. Then quietly left the room. 


2 18 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Sabine gathered up the letters. 

The two topmost were bills. Beneath this was a post card — 
she stared — directed to Miss Vallance! But what sent the 
blood rushing wildly to her heart was the amazing fact that the 
handwriting was clearly Mark’s. The lines sloped unevenly and 
the address was scribbled in pencil. There was no field postmark 
on the card. 

Suddenly the postman’s words returned to her. Was it an old 
one — that had lain for years in some odd corner? She turned it 
over breathlessly. The first thing that she saw, stamped in 
blue ink on the corner was “Hospital Ship . No charge” Next, 
she was reading, rigid with fear, the pencilled communication: 

Wounded in ankle but all right . Will let you know my hos- 
pital later . Writing this in mid-Channel . Don't worry , old lady . 

Mark. 

Her first sensation was of relief — an immense relief. Mark 
was alive. Wounded but “all right” and able to send a lucid 
message. 

“Thank God!” She leaned against the table, for her knees 
were shaking under her. 

Then the mystery of the address returned with redoubled force. 
Was he “all right”? Perhaps light-headed from fever induced by 
his wound, or under the spell of some pain-killing drug? The post 
card must be meant for Sabine. Yet Mark never called her “old 
lady.” It had been a habit of his with Miss Vallance, a sign of 
good fellowship between them, dropped when she turned severe 
and he substituted “Aunt Beth.” There was no mistaking the 
address. He had meant his message for the latter, ignoring the 
fact of her death. And not a single word for Sabine? She bit 
her lip, mortified. 

Johnson appeared with the breakfast. Sabine gravely gave 
her the news. The maid at first feigned surprise then admitted 
a part of her knowledge. 

“I didn’t know what to do, m’m. I saw the address on the card 
when Clutterbuck handed it in and it gave me quite a turn. It 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


219 


was almost as if the mistress had come back from the grave! 
Clutterbuck was wondering himself. He thought it must be an 
old letter. Poor Mr. Vallance! Does he say where the wound is, 
m’m?” In this way she hoped to disguise the truth — that she 
had read both sides of the card! 

“In the ankle. There are no details. As soon as I hear where 
his hospital is I shall try and arrange to see him, or anyhow get 
more definite news. It’s strange, as you say, about that card, but 
he probably was feverish. You can tell people that he is wounded, 
but don’t refer to the address. He might be annoyed, on his 
return. Wounded men are often light-headed.” 

“Yes m’m. My husband” — Johnson’s voice filled with pride 

— “says that they do funny things sometimes when they’re hit. 
He once saw a man run round and round in a circle and then fall 
down like a log, and when he came to his wits again he thought he 
was drunk or in heaven! Couldn’t remember nothink, m’m!” 

Sabine smiled. 

“That proves what I say. So don’t let there be any chatter.” 
She settled down to her breakfast, a mechanical performance, 
divided between hope and suspense. 

Mark in England? Hers, once more! But in fever and pain — 
her thoughts ran on. There might have to be operations, in- 
volving the loss of a limb? Mark, a cripple! She shuddered, 
picturing the big man doomed to crutches, eternally lame. And at 
this juncture there came a tap at the door; Dillon’s old face ap- 
peared. She was beaming, triumph in her eyes, already hearing 
the wedding bells. The news had reached her from the kitchen. 

Her vigorous common sense drove away the heavy clouds. 
What was a “trouble in the leg”? When men were losing “their 
heads and worse”! A few hours and her “darling” would laugh 

— and be packing too, off to town or wherever her lover was lying 
“and wishin’ ” for the sight of her “beautiful face.” A good 
thing it was the foot. A lame soldier would be discharged for a 
certainty, in “glory and honour.” And as to the card, “Hiven 
help him!” Dillon had tried to write a letter at sea before now 
with her head swimming; and what must it be on a hard deck 


220 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“with Himself packed flat on his back like a sardine?” Her own 
idea of a hospital ship, the wounded in layers like slices of cake! 

It was almost a cheerful Sabine who arrived at the little Ferry 
House to find Elizma practising, a mute on the bridge of her 
violin, and Taverner busy, writing letters. They, too, were re- 
assuring, though Orde asked Sabine carelessly how long it was 
since Miss Vallance’s death, and went on to talk of the weather. 
The sunny sky was clouding over and it looked doubtful for the 
picnic. Elizma, watching her friend’s face, decided that this 
hasty call was to find an excuse for postponing the outing. News 
might come at any moment. She would only fret up there on the 
moor out of reach of telegrams. So Elizma vetoed the expedition. 
They would come round after lunch and Orde could hear the 
sonata. It was going to rain; she was sure of it. 

Sabine welcomed the altered plans and hurrying back to her 
dairy work was stopped twice in the village for confirmation of 
the news which had filtered through from the house. A small 
child from Mrs. Pedlar, “up-the-lane” brought an anxious mes- 
sage. The old lady was agitated. Was it true that the Squire was 
coming home? Then Mrs. Cumberquick arrived with a face as 
long as her broom. The story had reached her in the form of 
“both ’is pore legs off at the knee”! Sabine had a busy morning, 
with little chance for private thought. 

At lunch time a dog-cart drove up and Sir James Mallison 
jumped down and came striding across the lawn. He greeted 
Sabine cordially, with a keen eye for a pretty woman. 

“So Vallance is wounded? Bad luck! Have you any further 
details? I heard rumours in the village and came on to the 
fountain-head. Knew I’d get the truth from you!” He gave her 
a gallant look that yet was tinged with respect. 

She liked the straight-limbed elderly man, whose only son was 
at the Front and whose wife and girls were immersed in war-work. 
They were people who turned to deeds, not words. Yielding to 
a sudden impulse she showed him the mysterious post card, the 
address uppermost. 

He read it gravely and glanced at her. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


221 


“The ankle? Well, it might be worse.” 

As she did not answer he turned the card over once more, his 
iron-grey brows meeting in two fierce tufts. “Curious? He must 
know that she’s dead — poor dear Elizabeth! His mind wander- 
ing a bit? That’s it — -result of shock. Anyhow he can write. 
That’s a great consolation. I hope the poor boy won’t be lame.” 
He turned. The blue door had opened to admit the telegraph- 
girl, breathless. “Ah! Is this further news? I’ll wait in the 
cart — on the chance. Don’t you hurry now, Mrs. Cruikshank.” 
He had seen the blood ebb from her cheeks. 

“A nice woman,” he said to himself as he swung himself up into 
his seat and proceeded to remove a horse-fly with his twisted whip 
from the mare’s flank. “Steady, lass!” She was quivering and 
jerking her head away from the groom. He stared out over the 
laid-back ears, his eyes deliberately turned from the lawn and 
the silent figure with bent head. “She’s taking her time. I 
wonder, now? Devilish handsome and a widow — Well, Mark 
might do worse! Fane’s a good name and she looks well-bred. 
Clever, too, as a basket of monkeys. Gull found that out, to his 
cost.” He grinned, the firm lines of his mouth under his white 
moustache betraying amused admiration. “A long sight better 
than his last venture in matrimony. Rachel will be disappointed 
— she thought that one of the girls might do, but I doubt it now 
Mary’s married. Personally I should be sorry. There’s some- 
thing uncanny at Lidding St. Mary. Mark’s boy, dying like 
that—” 

He started. Sabine stood in the doorway, still pale but com- 
posed. 

“Mr Vallance is quite near. In a hospital at Exeter.” She 
gave the name. “Going on well.” 

“Good!” Sir John looked relieved. “Did he send the wire 
himself?” 

She nodded her head. With a swift glance at the groom holding 
the fractious mare, she passed the envelope across. 

Sir James read it with a frown. It was addressed to Miss 
Vallance. He stooped over the yellow wheel and lowered his 
voice. 


222 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“I understand. I think my guess was correct.” A sudden 
feeling of pity seized him. Over the calm face raised to his, he 
had seen a quiver of pain pass. Her eyes were strained. “Cheer 
up! It will all come right in the end. I appreciate your telling 
me and, of course, this will go no further.” He resumed his old 
hearty tone. “Glad to think it’s no worse.” He was tugging off 
his driving-glove. “If I can be of any assistance at any time, let 
me know. I’d be delighted. Good-bye, Mrs. Cruikshank.” He 
gave her hand a hearty squeeze. “Don’t forget that we’re 
neighbours.” 

She watched him drive up the lane, straight-backed for all his 
years, a true and honest gentleman. And suddenly, for the first 
time for many months, she caught herself regretting the hour of 
her folly. She had no right to his respect. She was only the 
mistress of his friend. 

Then she glanced down at her fingers, aware of a physical dis- 
comfort. The sharp, thin band of her father’s ring had been 
crushed into the soft flesh by that kindly, impulsive hand-shake. 
Still in the grip of her new depression, she studied the crest en- 
graved on the signet, with the motto underneath: 

“In honour I serve” 

Her smile was bitter. She had served, but not in honour. And 
now Mark had forgotten her. 


CHAPTER XX 


HE sun was setting as Sabine trudged up the last hill to 



Lidding Moor. Her telegram had been delayed and no 


one had met her at the Junction on her return from 
Exeter where she had spent the night. It reminded her of her 
first walk “seeking a situation” in all the ardour of her girlhood, 
eagerly looking to the future. But what a lifetime of emotions 
lay between the two journeys! Now her thoughts must turn to 
the past; for little happiness lay ahead. 

She walked like a woman heavily burdened, too tired to lift 
her feet from the dust. The beauty of the lonely scene, with the 
gorse in its full glory stealing up to the evening sky to merge in 
bars of warm primrose, and the long ribbon of the road, mys- 
terious, beckoning like a finger, brought no sense of pleasure to 
her — only a fear of isolation that strengthened with each lagging 
step. 

Suddenly her nervous strain relaxed. By the wayside, on a 
rock that broke the parched monotony, she could see a still figure 
perched like some strayed elf on its mushroom, gazing into the 
glow of the sunset. Bareheaded, her hat beside her, Elizma sat, 
absently twisting her blue beads in her fingers, lost to all but 
the glory of colour that was painting sky and sea. She started 
as Sabine drew close, gave a quick exclamation and sprang down 
from her seat. 

“You? How nice! You’ve come back.” She was on the 
dusty road now, Sabine’s hand between her own, studying her 
friend’s face and the cruel change in it. “The news is bad?” 
Her voice was anxious. 

Aware that she could not control her own, Sabine nodded si- 


223 


224 THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 

lently. This unexpected sympathy was almost more than she 
could bear. 

“My poor dear! I understand.” Elizma’s sweet, husky tones 
were warm with an open pity. 

“You don’t!” Sabine looked defiant. She drew away from 
the other. “You can’t. It’s impossible.” 

The golden eyes grew wise and tender, for Elizma was proud 
herself. She divined the battle in Sabine’s heart. She forced the 
issue deliberately. 

“I guessed your secret long ago. You loved Vallance, not 
Cruikshank.” 

“It’s worse than that.” 

Unconsciously they fell into step side by side, their faces turned 
towards home. Elizma broke the short silence. 

“Would you care to tell me?” she asked simply. “No one will 
ever hear the story — except Orde. You can trust him.” 

Sabine seemed lost in thought. At last she spoke, rather 
abruptly: 

“Must we go home at once? There’s the quarry — and I feel 
so tired. I can’t face Dillon yet.” 

“No. Let’s have a little rest.” Elizma slipped a hand through 
her arm. “I came out for a tramp, as I felt in the mood for 
open spaces and to be alone with my thoughts.” She added with 
transparent guile, “I was getting rather tired of myself when you 
came to the rescue. Where’s the quarry?” 

“It’s over there.” Sabine made a vague gesture. 

They turned off across the moor, towards a depression in the 
ground where rocks were piled unevenly, threaded their way 
through a tangle of bushes, descending with every step, and ar- 
rived at their destination. 

Elizma looked round her eagerly. 

“How nice! I could stay here all night.” She settled herself 
on the wiry grass, that had blotted out man’s handiwork. 

Sabine followed her example. She knew now that she meant 
to confess the story in full and risk the effect. She was reckless 
in her mood of despair. If Elizma turned away from her it 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


225 

would only be a minor part of this day of reckoning. She started, 
without hesitation: 

“ Supposing I were a bad woman, immoral, would you still 
know me?” 

Elizma smiled, her eyes fixed on the distant line of sea. 

“I can’t say. I’ve never met a bad woman — not wholly bad. 
I’m not sure that they exist. If it comes to that I’m bad myself 
— ‘born in sin’, as the Church would say. I know I can trust 
you, Sabine, so I’m going to tell you my secret. My parents were 
never married. No one knows but an old priest and Orde. I’m 
an illegitimate child.” 

She heard Sabine draw in her breath. 

“You? How strange! So’s Anthony.” 

Elizma looked unmoved. 

“Then Cruikshank?” 

“Never existed. I’ve no right to the name. A respectable 
cloak — that’s all!” 

Elizma’s supple fingers, with the padded tips of the violinist, 
came across and covered her friend’s. 

“And Mark Vallance is the father?” 

Sabine started. 

“How did you know?” 

“I didn’t — I guessed. But I’m quite sure that no one else 
suspects the truth.” She went on in a level voice, “Now you’re 
hoping to marry him?” 

“I was ” Sabine’s tragic eyes were turned full on her com- 
panion. She leaned forward, her pose abandoned and the pain 
rang out in her voice. “He’s forgotten, Elizma — everything! 
He doesn’t know me — not even by sight. They think it’s the 
result of shock. He was buried by a shell, and it’s left a gap in 
his memory. I’ve seen him and talked to him. He treated me — 
like a stranger!” She covered her face with her hands. 

Elizma, pitiful, watched the tears trickle between the tense 
fingers. 

“He’ll recover, dear. It only needs patience.” 

Silence save for the stifled sobs. 


226 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Hush!” Elizma removed the pins from the dusty hat, tossed 
it aside and drew the bent head down on her lap, stroking back 
the heavy hair. “It must have been a dreadful shock. Poor 
child! But it's not for long. It’s just a feature of his illness. 
Even if he doesn’t recall everything , by and by, when he’s better, 
you can tell him.” 

The muffled hopeless voice came up. “You forget! It’s not 
even as if I were an old friend, in his own social position. I’m 
the housekeeper — nothing more! Supposing he didn’t credit the 
story? No one knows, except Dillon. He’d think I was — an 
adventuress!” Her broken pride lay in the word. 

“He couldn’t!” Elizma’s eyes flashed. “He has loved you 
once — he’ll love you again. You’ve everything to appeal to a 
man. Perhaps — who knows — you may start afresh. A finer 
romance, both of you free. Hasn’t that occurred to you?” 

Sabine stirred and looked up into the vivid, troubled face 
above her own. Here was hope and, behind it, infinite charity. 

“Then you — don’t think I’ve been — wicked?” It might have 
been an unhappy child pleading for mercy and understanding. 

“I can’t judge,” said Elizma simply. “There are many things 
done in the name of love that lead to remorse later on. I think, 
perhaps, you’ve blinded yourself. One does. It’s human. I’ve 
been through it.” 

She felt her hand caught by Sabine and hot lips pressed against 
it. Silence fell between the pair. 

Over the edge of the sea the sun sank and a wan light suc- 
ceeded the afterglow. A breeze rose up and stirred the leaves, 
singing through a tuft of rushes fringing a hidden spring. Elizma 
listened instinctively, searching the dominant minor note of that 
fairy-like, sibilant piping. 

At last Sabine sat up and hunted for her handkerchief. 

“I’m a coward,” she whispered, mopping her eyes. “But if 
you knew how I’ve longed for the sight of Mark all these months 
and years. And then to find him — like that! They’d warned 
me, of course, but I wouldn’t believe it. I had to pretend to him 
it was natural. They only allowed me to see him for ten minutes, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


227 


in a ward where there were three other men. He has to be kept 
perfectly quiet. They’re going to operate to-morrow.” 

“It must have been hard,” said Elizma. She pictured the scene 
vividly. The bare room with its narrow beds and the chilly at- 
mosphere, breathing rules and regulations, outwardly so decorous 
yet holding the unvoiced tragedy of passion spent and forgotten, 
the broken spirit of the woman and the maimed body of the 
man. 

Sabine turned to her wistfully. 

“I’d like you to know everything — how it happened. I want 
your advice.” 

Elizma nodded. Absently she stretched out her hand and 
snapped off a juicy stem of blackberry and began to peel it, her 
eyes lowered as Sabine deliberately laid bare the history of the 
past years. It seemed that she tore down, stage by stage, the 
castle of dreams until she reached the barren ground. 

She finished on a hard note. 

“I suppose I did wrong from beginning to end and that this is 
the punishment.” 

Elizma was nibbling the green stem thoughtfully. 

“You want my opinion?” 

“Please.” Sabine braced herself to hear the unwelcome truth. 

“I don’t believe in punishments. I daresay it isn’t Christian, 
but I’ve never been very orthodox. They seem too petty for a 
God who has all the power in His own hands. I believe in simple 
cause and effect. You cheated. Mark belonged to his wife. 
You knew in your heart it wasn’t honest, but you steadily refused 
to see it. You even dragged in the war as an excuse for moral 
weakness. Now the veil has been torn from your eyes. But you 
mustn’t confuse cause and effect. You must start afresh — 
you’re given the chance. You can love him at last in all honour. 
I cheated once, and I paid for it. Not like you — but I was 
blind. I purposely misjudged Orde. I was proud too, of being 
better bred, and then” — she gave a husky laugh — “I found that, 
legally, I was nameless!” She laid an arm round Sabine’s shoul- 
ders. “You don’t think I’m preaching, do you? I should hate 


228 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


you to think that. What you’ve told me makes no difference. If 
anything I love you more. For I know, my dear, what loneliness 
means.” 

“Ah!” Sabine raised her head. “What a friend you are! 
You dear woman — ” For a moment they clung together. Then 
she went on in a humbler voice. “How can I start afresh? If it 
were not for Anthony, I would go straight away from here. Mark 
does not really need me, and everything is in order. I don’t 
suppose he’ll go back to the Front. His ankle is shattered” — 
her face quivered — “and they fear he will always be lame. Un- 
less his memory returns, he need never know the story. I 
certainly couldn’t tell him myself.” She drew herself up with her 
old pride. 

“I think that’s shirking it,” said Elizma. “You both owe a 
debt to the child. Besides, why shouldn’t you be happy? You 
love Mark with your whole heart and you’re the woman he ought 
to marry. He placed you in your present position — cause and 
effect again — he should share in the result. Supposing that you 
went away and lost all touch with him and that his memory re- 
turned — as it probably will, in due course — think of the man’s 
suffering? No, you must wait and be brave. It’s the only way. 
I know it’s bitter. But love’s a deeper thing than pride. That is, 
if it’s worth the name.” 

“I wonder?” 

“You know it is. Otherwise — ” Elizma stopped. 

“I shouldn’t have been Mark’s mistress?” Sabine smiled bit- 
terly, finishing the broken sentence. 

“Nor the mother of his child.” Elizma spoke very gravely. 
“Would you rather be as you are, or without Anthony?” 

A shrewd thrust; Sabine winced. Elizma, remembering the 
darkest hour of her own life, with its thwarted maternity, at war 
with Orde’s eugenic notions, smiled to herself, watching her friend. 

Far away over the sea came a sudden flash of light, like a 
silver thread on the veiled background — some ship signalling to 
another a message of warning or protection. A belated bird flew 
to its nest in the tangled boughs that fringed the quarry. The 
night settled down to peace. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


229 


“I don’t know. I can’t think clearly.” Sabine’s voice was very 
weary. “It’s the shock, I suppose. If you’d seen his face; 
puzzled, courteous, but utterly cold. I had to explain who I was. 
They had told him that his aunt was dead and warned me to 
avoid the subject. But he doesn’t know about his wife, nor that 
he has bought Lidding St. Mary. He realizes that something is 
wrong — this gap in his memory — is worried about it, apolo- 
getic. That hurt the most! He used to be so self-assured, 
almost arrogant. Poor Mark!” Her speech was choked for a 
moment. Suddenly she turned on herself. “No, I can’t desert 
him now! You’re perfectly right. I must just sit tight and 
bear it. But, oh, it’s so difficult! To go back to the old role of 
employer and employed. After I’ve been my own mistress — 
I’ve ruled Liddingcombe like his wife. To stand meekly and 
take orders; give an account of my stewarship — ” 

Elizma interrupted her. 

“But there you’re on firm ground. You’ve managed so splen- 
didly.” 

“Have I?” Sabine’s lips curled. “When we parted he shook 
hands, thanked me for coming to Exeter and hoped that I could 
get along without his assistance for a little! He doesn’t even 
realize that! It’s all wiped out — like a dirty slate.” 

“For a fresh inscription,” said Taverner’s wife. 

She watched Sabine’s restless fingers that were playing un- 
consciously with a fine chain round her throat. The nervous 
movement dislodged a pendant that weighed down the platinum 
links, jerking it out from its hiding-place under the folds of her 
blouse. It lay now like a splash of blood on the white linen coat, 
a ruby drop, pear-shaped, of exquisite colour and proportion. 

Sabine’s eyes fell on it. She held it out to Elizma. 

“Do you know what that is? It’s a Vallance heirloom that 
is always given to the bride of the eldest son on her marriage 
night — the one present that Mark reclaimed when he parted 
from Sybil. He fastened it round my neck at Niton — a proof 
of his undying love, that he looked on me as his real wife.” 

Elizma’s sensitive face quivered. 


230 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“So you will be. Courage, dear! Some day you’ll look back 
and smile at this. That’s life. Our tragedies fade into incidents 
that have built up character, like the rungs of a steep ladder. 
We forget the sorrows and remember only what we gained in 
return. Unless, of course, we’re just bromides, and browse 
through life like tranquil sheep.” She gave herself a little shake. 
“I’ve no use for those people! I suppose they help natural laws 
in some way — by mere weight. Keep the globe properly bal- 
anced — take in food and breathe out morals ! They seem con- 
tented, but I’d sooner swing to extremes and know the heights 
and depths of love and pain and joy. You’re in the depths now. 
But you’ll rise above them. You always have. It’s in your blood 
— you’re no weakling!” 

Sabine instinctively straightened her shoulders. 

“No. I owe that to my father.” An odd smile crossed her 
face. Fane had been, before all, a lover. “He had his reverses 
as well as his triumphs — but he always took his fences flying. 
He’d be ashamed of me now.” 

Elizma made no response. In her heart she was wondering if 
Fane, alive, would have extended the indulgence with which he 
had covered his own adventures to the child of his marriage. She 
doubted it. Men were biased. They pleaded the excuse of sex, of 
stronger temptations and desires. Woman might take up man’s 
work and achieve the same successes, wear man’s clothes and 
reap man’s wages, but the old “possessive” cult remained. She 
must keep herself pure for the man she married, whatever his 
bachelor life may have been, bear children, with all the risk 
that the father’s conduct might have entailed, but never, never err 
herself. And after marriage she must submit to the laws govern- 
ing divorce, even to the extent of knowing that a husband was 
faithless, with all the shame of the hard old world’s secret amuse- 
ment and the physical disgust of sharing him with another woman, 
but powerless to escape from the tie unless cruelty could be 
proven. 

Elizma shivered at her thoughts. Orde, she knew, agreed with 
her that the divorce laws of England needed drastic reformation. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


231 


What would he think of Sabine? And that other side to the 
question: a man bound until death to his wife, sated with drugs, 
a bad mother, yet holding him to the grim bargain. Elizma 
could count on her husband’s pity. 

Orde, too, would see in Sabine a case of inherited moral weak- 
ness. Mark would stand as another instance; the curse that lay 
upon his house merely the dangerous effect of in-breeding for 
generations, of poor and vitiated blood. 

Did everything revert to eugenics? Was it the price that the 
spirit paid to the flesh — and, if so, why? Would man find the 
remedy; the war strike home the lesson that morality could be 
only upheld by far stricter laws of health which would safeguard 
both sexes? 

A faint, distant chime of bells from the spire of Lidding St. 
Mary Church stirred her from the deep problem. 

“Come — ” She held out her hand to Sabine. “What about 
our families? And Dillon, who probably by now has received 
your telegram and is picturing you lost on the moor?” She sprang 
up and drew the other reluctantly to her feet. “Try and see the 
hopeful side. A further adventure — finer too. You’ll win Mark 
back by love and patience. Orde and I will stand by you. I 
never have any secrets from him. It’s a promise that dates from 
our reunion.” There was loyal anxiety in her voice as she added, 
“But you can trust him, can’t you?” 

Sabine looked her straight in the face. 

“He won’t approve.” 

Elizma smiled. 

“No. But he’ll understand.” 


CHAPTER XXI 


O N a boisterous and rainy day Mark came back to Lidding- 
combe. 

Sir James Mallison had met him with the brougham at 
the Junction and Sabine was expecting the pair to arrive at any 
moment. Too restless to settle down, she wandered from room to 
room, her ear on the alert for wheels, her eyes turning to the 
clock. At last she heard the welcome sound and hurried out into 
the hall. 

The blue gate was opened wide. Through the arch came a 
tall figure, swinging forward on his crutches, cap wedged down 
over his brows, from beneath which his grave eyes eagerly scanned 
the old house. 

Sir James saw him to the porch, then excused himself from 
entering, with his ready tact. The horses were wet; he preferred 
not to keep them standing. 

“I’ll leave you in Mrs. Cruikshank’s hands.” His hearty voice 
reached Sabine as she stood lost in the shadows that gathered 
round the oak staircase. “Splendid to see you home again! My 
dear boy” — as Mark thanked him — “the carriage is yours 
whenever you want it. You’ve only to drop me a line, so don’t 
forget. I’ll look in soon.” He was off with a cheery wave of his 
hand. 

Johnson was holding back the door, her face red with nervous 
excitement. She babbled incoherently words of welcome and of 
pity when Mark recognized her. 

“Oh, I’m first-rate.” He checked the flow. “Not quite fit for 
football yet! Still — Hullo, there’s Vox!” Awkwardly he col- 
lapsed on the hall chair and held out his crutches. The spaniel 
was squirming round his legs, uttering hoarse barks of joy. 

232 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


233 


Mark gathered him up in his arms and buried his face in the 
silky coat. “Good chap! Good old fellow! You remember your 
old master, then?” 

Vox, whimpering, licked Mark’s cheek. 

Sabine, unnoticed, watched the pair, fighting down the sudden 
longing that seized her to sweep the dog aside and take that 
bowed head to her breast. Even Johnson, clasping his crutches, 
tears not far from her prominent eyes, was of more significance 
than herself. It was a bitter moment. 

Controlling her nerves, she came forward and gave an order 
about the luggage. The maid retired with a suit-case to unburden 
her mind in the kitchen. Mark looked up with a start at the 
sound of a strange voice. He tried to rise ineffectually, hampered 
by his canine friend. 

“Please don’t move,” said Sabine quickly. “I hope you’ve had 
a good journey?” 

“Excellent.” He held out his hand. “How are you, Mrs. 
Cruikshank?” His blue eyes met hers with a faint perplexity. 
“Everything all right?” 

“Quite, Mr. Vallance.” Her fingers slipped out of his, with 
the secret dread of prolonging the familiar contact. “It’s 
draughty here.” She moved as she spoke to close the door, aware 
that his gaze followed her, with that slight pucker of the brows. 

Mark struggled out of his coat and stood up, a hand on the 
table, his weight thrown on the sound foot. In silence she 
handed him his crutches. 

“Thank you.” He felt relieved at the absence on her part of 
all reference to his misfortune. 

“I’ve had a fire lit in the drawing-room,” Sabine explained. 
“It turned so chilly. I hope you won’t find it too warm?” She 
stood back for him to pass, but he signed for her to precede him. 

“I’m very glad. How cheerful!” He stared round the wide 
old room, pausing a moment on the threshold. 

There were new chintzes on the chairs and flowers skilfully 
arranged. Near the hearth, its back to the window, stood the 
cane sofa used by Miss Vallance with cushions and a light rug. 


234 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


The table was laid for tea and the warm glow of the burning 
logs shone upon the fine old silver, enhancing the lustre of the 
cups. 

Mark drank it in with pleasure. 

“Home,” he said beneath his breath. 

Sabine waited, a hand on the sofa, steadying it as the crippled 
man lowered his long frame into a sitting position. As she did 
not move he glanced up. 

“You expect me to lie down?” His lips curved with a touch 
of mischief. There was an air of rebellion about him. 

“Isn't it wise, after your journey?” 

“Well, I'll obey orders! But I'm not really an invalid now.” 

“No, I can see that.” 

He gave her a grateful look and stretched himself full length. 
With a careless movement she dropped a fold of the light rug 
over his feet hiding the injured member with its surgical boot 
that was made of strong papier mache, with little straps to sup- 
port the sole and keep all weight off the ankle. 

It was neatly done and Mark guessed the kindly intention be- 
hind the act. He watched her as she moved across to the other 
side of the fireplace. Lifting the silver kettle, she carefully 
“mothered” the single cup and warmed the Queen Anne teapot. 

“It's not quite boiling yet.” She sat down in his aunt's chair 
patiently, her hands folded. 

The man's tired eyes fell on them — the fingers still browned 
by the sun but slender with tapering tips — and the two rings 
of plain gold, the emblem of her “widowhood” and her father's 
worn signet. 

He broke the silence abruptly. 

“Mrs. Cruikshank?” 

Her lowered lids were raised; her dark, mournful eyes met his 
in mute attention. 

“I'm going to ask you to do me a favour. You know how I'm 
placed?” His voice was jerky. “To all intents and purposes 
I've mislaid four years of my life. I can remember everything 
up to the outbreak of war; after that my mind's a blank. My 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


235 


memory may return, but meanwhile it’s horribly awkward. I 
understand that you have been here for, practically, the whole 
period and I want you, if you will, to coach me in things Fm 
expected to know.” 

She nodded her head, watching him. He went on, satisfied: 

“Sir James Mallison has been a great help. He came several 
times to Exeter and gave me the main facts; the death of my 
wife and the news — almost incredible — that Lidding St. Mary 
is mine once more. But all sorts of other matters worry me as 
they crop up. There’s the question of money, for instance. Of 
course I’ve heard of my legacy but I don’t know what it amounts 
to.” He hesitated, his face strained, then broke out impatiently, 
“ I hate being kept in the dark! I’ve been told that I’m to let 
things slide — indefinitely. That’s absurd! I must know how I 
stand.” 

“Of course.” Her prompt acquiescence soothed him; his tense 
attitude relaxed. “You would worry far more if you didn’t.” 
The ghost of a smile flickered across the beautiful curves of her 
mouth. 

It seemed to Mark that something strong and purposeful 
emanated from this woman whose position in his household he 
could not definitely gauge. 

She went on in her musical voice: 

“I quite understand, Mr. Vallance, and I will help you as far 
as I can. After the death of your aunt and before you went to 
the Front you practically left the management of your house 
and property in my hands. For instance I arranged the purchase 
of Lidding St. Mary from the Gulls. You can have the figures 
at any moment. The accounts are all in order.” A faint pride 
rang out in the statement. “The deeds are in your lawyers’ 
charge. Also the list of your investments under your cousin’s 
will. But meanwhile there is nothing to cause you any anxiety, 
financial or otherwise. You can take my word for it.” 

“I’m sure I can. I’m most g-grateful.” He stammered a little. 
“It’s not that. It’s just the whole uncertainty. I haven’t even 
saved my letters. When that shell got me, I was buried and I 


236 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


lost everything I possessed. Including my wits!” He smiled 
grimly. “What I really meant just now was I hoped that you’d 
be quite frank with me — not put me off, if anything’s wrong. 
I’m practically well again. I can take up my own work.” 

Sabine was pouring the boiling water carefully on to the tea- 
leaves. He saw her give a sudden start. Her lips tightened as 
if with pain. 

“You haven’t scalded yourself?” he exclaimed. 

“No.” She spoke with an effort. “The handle was hot — 
that’s all.” His words had prompted the excuse. 

Take up his own work? Then there would be no need of her. 
Her deepest fear lay in this. 

Relieved, Mark went back to his problem. 

“As you know, I’m home on sick leave. But I’ve no doubt as 
to the issue. In due course I shall be discharged. I’m of no 
further active use. So I might as well take up my life where I 
left it before I joined the army.” A sudden thought seemed to 
strike him. “Have I been home since I went to the Front? 
Surely I must have had some leave.” 

Sabine’s heart dropped a beat. The room seemed strangely 
silent save for the steady tick of the clock. He must not guess. 
She prayed for strength and inspiration at this crisis. Then she 
heard herself answer calmly: 

“You have not been back to Liddingcombe. Some of your 
letters were sent from Paris. No doubt you spent your leave 
there?” 

“Probably.” His face cleared. “I’m glad of that. It makes 
things simpler. Of course, after my aunt’s death, there was 
nothing to bring me home.” 

“No.” 

Why did she look so sad? Had she, too, missed Miss Vallance? 
Mark wondered. Then he recalled the fact of her own loss. Sir 
James had explained her widowed condition. Mark felt vexed 
with himself for arousing painful memories. Clumsily he changed 
the subject. 

“Well, I think we’ve talked enough business. It’s really Sir 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


237 


James’s fault. He told me I could rely on you — of all you 
have done in my absence. He’s a great admirer of yours, Mrs. 
Cruikshank.” He gave her the open boyish smile she remembered 
in the early days of their platonic friendship; the heart-whole 
smile of a man who has no fear of a woman’s charm. It hurt her 
more than the harshest word, emphasizing the gulf between them. 

She came across with his cup and the silver dish holding scones. 

“Thanks — it’s very good of you. But you shouldn’t be wait- 
ing on me like this.” He glanced at the cup. “What about 
sugar? Or is that a vanished luxury? Everything seems short 
in England.” 

“I — remembered.” She turned away. “I put in two lumps. 
It’s not too much?” 

“Not when I can get it,” he laughed. “I hope that you’re 
going to join me?” 

“Thanks, but I’ve had my tea. In the nursery.” 

“With your child?” He drank thirstily, then laid the cup on 
the stool beside him. “Sir James told me about him and his old 
Irish nurse. I understand she was with my aunt to the last, and 
a perfect treasure. I should like to thank her. What is her 
name?” 

“Dillon.” 

He nodded. “And your baby?” 

“He is called Anthony.” 

“That’s odd!” Mark smiled. “When I was a boy at school 
they christened me ‘Mark Anthony’. We must certainly get ac- 
quainted.” He little guessed that the well-meant speech ran 
through Sabine like a knife. The warm fire and the tea had in- 
duced in him a genial mood. “Then there are the other servants, 
Cook and Ellen. I must see them.” 

“Ellen has left. There’s a new housemaid, Mary — a niece of 
Mrs. Pedlar’s.” Sabine, at the end of her strength, was making 
her way to the door. “If you will excuse me now? Oh, I for- 
got — ” She hesitated, caught in the net of her duties. “There’s 
your room. I’ve made an alteration which I hope you’ll ap- 
prove. Those polished stairs are so steep I thought — we 


238 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


thought — ” Her words faltered but she caught herself in hand 
again. “We thought it would be easier if you slept on the ground 
floor. But, of course, that’s exactly as you wish. Your old room 
is in order.” 

Mark looked interested. 

“Very thoughtful. It sounds convenient.” How pale she was! 
He had admired her rich, dark colouring on the day she had 
visited the hospital. Could she be nervous? He must help her. 
“You’d like me to come and see it now?” He laid down his 
empty cup. “I’ve finished tea. Yes, really. I don’t want to 
spoil my dinner.” He bent down for his crutches. One had 
slipped beyond his reach. Sabine came back and retrieved it, 
standing rigid by his side, a hand on the sofa, as he rose. Thank 
Heaven she did not try to assist him! This was his passing 
thought. He little guessed that she dared not, his near presence 
calling for desperate self-control. “I’m not as helpless as I look, 
but I’m scared to death of falling down.” His eyes twinkled. 
“There’s a confession!” 

“It might hinder your recovery.” 

An odd look crossed his face. Again she had read his mind. 
A woman of intuition? A lady too. He was perplexed. How 
had she come to his house in this subordinate position? His 
eyes ran over her, as she led the way down the passage, noting 
the fine poise of her head with its smooth and shining hair, the 
cut of her simple dress that showed off her graceful figure and 
the light step of those well-shod feet. About her was the sense 
of finish that appeals to the masculine mind, with a dearth of 
superfluous ornament; only the fine platinum chain breaking the 
line of her white neck to lose itself in the folds of her blouse. 
A mystery? It quickened his senses. 

At the door before the approach to his study, she turned 
quickly and surprised the admiration on his face. For the first 
time since his return, hope stirred from its hiding-place. Elizma 
seemed a true prophet. She would win him back — a new ro- 
mance. The Fane blood raced through her veins and warmed 
her voice when she spoke. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


239 

“It’s only a makeshift,” she cautioned him, smiling, as she 
turned the handle of the door. 

Mark, from his great height, peered eagerly over her shoulder. 

“Why, it’s the old gun-room! I never should have recognized 
it. What a jolly nice place.” 

Again he was the old Mark of their happy bathing days. The 
years had slipped away between them. 

“You like it?” Unconsciously she relaxed from her formal 
pose, catching the man’s note of excitement. The clear colour 
rose in her cheeks, her mouth was like a scarlet flower. 

“I do.” He followed her into the room and stood leaning 
against the rail of the fine old mahogany bed. “Did you plan it 
all yourself?” 

“Yes. It’s a part of my stewardship.” She ventured the little 
joke. 

“By Jove!” His eyes came back to her face. “It’s a man’s 
room.” 

“I meant it to be.” She looked triumphant, aware that the 
words held the highest form of praise. “You see, I have this 
advantage: I happen to know what you prefer.” 

“Yes — I suppose so. Evidently.” 

She wondered if she had made a mistake but he added quickly: 

“It’s top-hole.” 

He studied the transformation. The room had been a disused 
place where lumber had accumulated. Now the walls were dis- 
tempered in a rich ochre colour. There were curtains of myrtle 
green at the windows that matched the carpet and a big arm-chair 
which stood, a rack for books behind it, on one side of the old 
fireplace. The other recess held a fine tall-boy in dark ma- 
hogany like the bed. Close to the latter was a table with a 
reading-lamp and a brass tray on which stood a tantalus and 
siphon, beneath a shelf filled with books. All her loving care for 
him had been expended in their choice. They were to soothe 
sleepless hours, food for the weary spirit. 

No ornaments broke the clean lines of the beautiful old furni- 
ture save a bronze clock on the mantel-shelf and a pair of high 


240 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


candlesticks. But a single engraving hung above them, a sea- 
piece in a sombre frame with a stormy sky and sunlit water, the 
gulls flashing over the waves. Mark’s glance rested on it and he 
gave a start of surprised recognition. 

“Wherever did you find that? It used to be at Lidding St. 
Mary. In my father’s dressing-room.” 

“I know. Cook remembered it. I unearthed it from the far 
attic, wedged in under the eaves, behind — you’ll laugh — a 
rocking-horse! I nearly stole it for Anthony.” 

“Never! Had it a broken nose? If so, it’s ‘Dobbin’ — my 
first charger. Of course the little chap must have it. I’ll get 
it down for him to-morrow — ” He checked himself with a rueful 
smile and caught the pity on her face that came and went in a 
flash. 

“I shouldn’t advise you to,” she said. “It’s a dirty old loft. 
But I’ll tell Steve, if you really can spare the toy. Anthony will 
be overjoyed.” 

Again he blessed her for her tact. His “housekeeper”? Good 
Lord! He looked quickly away from her with the guilty fear she 
might read his thoughts. 

“Do — if it’s any good! You’d better see to the rockers first. 
This room looks a different shape. There used to be a deep 
alcove under the curve of the kitchen stairs with a funny little 
window that wouldn’t open — high up.” 

“It opens now. Would you care to see? It’s behind the curtain 
there.” She walked across and drew back the heavy folds, then 
smiled at Mark over her shoulder. 

It was the old unconscious pose that had caught his fancy years 
before when in seeking shelter from the storm she had paused 
in the narrow archway. No memory rose to stir his blood but the 
magic worked anew. He was struck by the charm of that vivid 
face and the curve of her throat, fuller now with the ripeness of 
maturity, which had fulfilled the promise of youth. 

“Look!” Her voice was imperious. 

Amused, he obeyed. Standing behind her, propped on his 
crutches, he could see that the walls of the deep recess were 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


241 


distempered too, the rough old boards covered with cork matting 
and that in the centre stood a bath with, behind it, a washing- 
stand and a shaving mirror so arranged that the full light fell 
upon it. 

“It's the best I could do,” Sabine explained. “ It was no good 
your sleeping here and toiling up to the bath-room. I was 
tempted to have it properly fitted, but everything's so costly now, 
and since you are moving to Lidding St. Mary — ” She paused, 
leaving the sentence unfinished. 

“I don't feel inclined for a move at present. You've made it 
all so comfortable. I can splash here as much as I like!” His 
smile widened. 

To his surprise he saw the light spring up in her face; she 
gave a quick sigh of relief. He thought her over-anxious and 
added a further word of praise. 

“Really, you know, Mrs. Cruikshank” (How badly the name 
fitted her! ) “I didn't expect a welcome like this. Although I’ve 
been longing to get home, there was always a sort of dread. An 
empty house. Without my aunt — Oh well, you'll understand? 
We'd lived so many years together.” 

She nodded gravely, meeting his eyes. A sudden shyness in- 
vaded her. She feared what he might read in her own. 

“You must be tired. If you've everything you require, I'll be 
going now.” She slipped past him. “Here's the bell. It rings 
in the pantry — Johnson will come. You'd like dinner at eight 
o'clock?” 

“Please. And thank you for all you've done.” 

The door closed gently behind her. Mark stood for a moment, 
thoughtful. Through the window he could see the fringe of the 
hazel grove across the kitchen-garden wall. The steady noise of 
the rain pattering on an outhouse roof was the only note that 
broke the silence. The grey sky pressed down forlornly on the 
steaming land. He was home again, no longer bound to daily 
rules and prohibitions, master of his own actions. Yet, through 
the relief inspired by freedom swept a growing sense of loneliness 
and the knowledge of his helpless state, a crippled man, without 


242 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


relations. It enhanced the value of the woman whose presence 
seemed unexplained, approved by the aunt he had loved and in- 
vested by himself in the lost years with full power. 

Sir James had spoken highly of her. 

“No wonder/' mused Mark as he settled himself in the deep 
arm-chair. “Capable and refined too — this room shows good 
taste. I wonder how she came here?" 

On a low stool by his side stood a box of cigarettes with an 
ash-tray and matches. He picked up the former and read the 
name of the maker, frowning again. 

“Why, she even knows what I smoke — has remembered it all 
these years! It's almost like a fairy tale." 

He would have thought it still more strange could he have 
followed Sabine into the still drawing-room and witnessed her 
behaviour. 

Johnson had cleared away the tea, but the lamps had not yet 
been brought. The room was full of deepening shadows and the 
warm scent of flowers. Outside, the wind blustered and the 
storm seemed to emphasize the feeling of home and security 
within the deep old walls. Sabine wandered to the sofa. It was 
as Mark had left it, the rug fallen to the floor, a dent in the soft 
upper cushion covered with fine muslin, through which the faded 
satin gleamed. 

She glanced at the closed door nervously, then bent lower. 
Now her cheek filled the hollow left by Mark's. A faint scent, 
aromatic, suggesting bay-leaves, lingered there from his hair, and 
roused poignant memories. Her eyes closed. With a stifled sob, 
she turned her face and pressed her lips to the place where his 
dear head had lain. 


CHAPTER XXII 


ONTRARY to her expectations Sabine slept soundly. She 



awoke to a morning of sapphire and gold to find Dillon by 


her bed, with Anthony, in wild spirits, claiming his rock- 
ing-horse. 

The old nurse was optimistic. The Saints who had sent Mark 
home undoubtedly to “right the wrong,” with the convenient 
penalty of a disabled limb, would remember the innocent little 
victim and provide Anthony with a father. 

But the day was doomed to reaction. At lunch, where they 
met for the first time, Sabine found, not the old Mark, but a 
moody man in the grip of a taciturn depression. 

He greeted her formally. Save for a passing remark devoted to 
the change in the weather, there was no conversation. Across 
the long, well-laid table they faced each other, oceans apart. She 
could see, in the dazzling light, lines that war and suffering had 
engraved on his handsome face, with a deep furrow between the 
brows that testified to the strain of hourly responsibility. The 
fact that he did not recollect the dangers through which he had 
passed could not defeat Nature’s plan, which makes of the human 
countenance a chart for those with eyes to read. 

He had hardened perceptibly. Here was difficult material for 
a woman to mould to her secret desire. 

At last he broke the heavy silence. 

“Are there apples in this room?” He sniffed as he spoke 
distastefully, his glance wandering to the sideboard. 

“No, we never keep them here. Besides, they’re very scarce 
this autumn. The late frosts ruined the crop.” 

“Oh.” He still looked suspicious. 

Sabine, aware of this, rose from her chair, with a faint mistrust 


243 


244 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


of Johnson in an absent-minded mood, and opened the pair of 
side cupboards in the fine old Sheraton piece. 

“You see?” She turned for his confirmation. 

“It’s strange,” said Mark. “I could have sworn that there 
were apples somewhere about.” He changed the subject with a 
frown. “Is Mrs. Pedlar still alive?” 

“Yes; old Humporley too. He’s bedridden and failing fast, 
but a niece has come to help his wife, so he’s well looked after. 
I took him down a bottle of village port last week. He was very 
pleased, but when I called a few days later there it stood, un- 
touched! It’s being kept for the funeral. Did you ever hear of 
such a thing? His own wish — a matter of pride. He says that 
he likes to feel when he’s gone that they’ll put him away ‘prap- 
erly,’ with a glass of wine for the neighbours. And there was old 
Mrs. Humporley stitching hard at a crepe bonnet, sitting by his 
bedside! I think she realized my surprise for she said if ‘in- 
terested William’ — he was glad to think that his old woman 
would look so smart by the grave!” 

Mark nodded without smiling. “It’s a great occasion in village 
lives. The respect that is shown after death helps to remove its 
sting. They’re generous to their dead — which is more than we 
are, sometimes.” He relapsed into his gloomy mood. 

Johnson brought in the coffee. Through the open door came 
the sound of a child crying upstairs. Mark turned his head 
sharply. 

“I’m afraid that’s Anthony,” said Sabine. “If you’ll excuse 
me?” She rose from the table. 

“Dillon’s with him, m’m,” breathed Johnson. “He fell off the 
rocking horse.” 

“Poor little chap,” said Mark. “Go, by all means.” It was a 
dismissal. 

“I’m sorry.” Sabine looked annoyed. “It’s very rarely that 
he cries and he was delighted with your present.” She glanced 
at Mark as she passed him, trying to read his secret thoughts. 

He nodded, his eyes averted. As soon as she had left the 
room, he turned to Johnson eagerly. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


245 


“Have you any apples in the house?” 

“No sir. There's a few in the loft, but they're hardly fit to 
bring to table. Shall I see if we can get some?” 

“No. That wasn’t the reason I asked. I thought I could smell 
them.” He sniffed again. “It might be a cut melon?” 

“There isn’t one, sir. The only dessert is the grapes that Lady 
Mallison sent and the nectarines you had last night. Shall I 
fetch them?” She stood by his chair, with the look of compassion 
on her face that roused the man’s inward impatience. 

“No, thanks. Just throw up that window. It’s stifling in 
here.” His voice was short. 

Johnson, in a flurry, obeyed. She had noticed that little beads 
of sweat were glistening on Mark’s forehead. His growing pallor 
frightened her. 

“If he faints, I shall go off meself!” was her thought and 
she beat a hasty retreat. “He do look queer and no mistake! 
P’raps there’s fits in the blood?” She jumped and pressed a 
hand to her heart as a bell clanged through the silence. “Lor’ 
bless me, what’s that? The front door!” She put down the 
tray on the pantry table with a thud. “Gave me a turn, it did. 
I’ll be thankful when my Fred comes ’ome and I have a little 
peace.” She glanced anxiously at the glass that hung beneath 
an almanac with intermittent fairs and texts. Her red cheeks had 
not lost their colour. “It’s me nerves,” she thought. “Being 
married and not married, so to speak. It’s enough to upset any 
girl. Drat the old war!” She flounced out. 

Sir James Mallison stood in the porch. She ushered him into 
the dining-room. 

Mark was at the open window. He turned, excitement on his 
face. 

“Hullo, Mallison! Come here, quick. I never saw such a 
sight in my life — look!” He pointed dramatically. 

Across the meadow, beyond the lane, where the ground sloped 
up from the high bank, two girls, arm in arm, were sauntering, 
their eyes turned to the straggling white house. They wore 
smocks, loosely belted, that barely reached to their knees, dis- 


246 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


closing breeches and leather gaiters. Their faces, browned by 
sun and wind, shone beneath their slouch hats and in their mouths 
were cigarettes. 

Sir James went off in a roar of laughter. 

“Land girls — that’s all! Never seen any of them before? 
Damn it, the man’s scandalized!” He rocked with mirth at 
Mark’s expression. “You’ll have to get used to it, my boy. All 
the women wear the breeks in these days — we’re nowhere! But, 
surely, at the Front — ” He checked himself annoyed and awk- 
ward, “I forgot. Of course it’s new to you,” and went on more 
soberly, “We ought to be proud of our women. They stick at 
nothing, God bless ’em!” 

“Oh, that’s the solution, is it?” said Mark. The light had died 
out of his face. He turned away restlessly. “Come to my study 
— unless you’ll have a drink first? I’m glad to see you — I want 
your advice.” 

Sir James refused the invitation. He was moved by a strong 
man’s pity as he watched the fine figure of his friend swinging 
along wearily, upheld by his crutches, down the passage and 
realized that this was only a part of his illness. He guessed that 
the lapse of memory troubled Mark far more than his shattered 
ankle, and cursed himself for his tactless mirth. 

They reached the sunny, bare room, and settled down in the 
arm-chairs. Mark carefully filled his pipe and for a moment 
there was silence. Then he looked up. 

“I’m rather bothered. I can’t get the hang of things. There’s 
Mrs. Cruikshank, for instance. What, exactly, is she here?” 

Sir James was lighting a cigar from the box passed by his 
host. He seemed absorbed in the task. 

“Well — ” He blew out the match and laid it thoughtfully in 
the fender. He did not raise his eyes as he spoke. “I suppose 
she’d call herself a ‘bailiff’ — under the new dispensation. Though 
she doesn’t dress to the part like our young friends on the land! 
But she’s every bit as good as a man. She tackled Gull like a 
lawyer.” 

“Still, the fact remains, she’s a woman,” Mark went on steadily. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


247 

“I’m going to ask you a plain question. Now that Aunt Beth is 
dead, is it all right her being here?” 

Sir James sat up very straight, a faint twinkle in his eyes, 
suppressed as he met Mark’s. 

“If you ask me my opinion I should say it was perfectly all 
right. Every one in the place respects her and she’s the widow 
of a soldier. I imagine she’s not well off and she has the boy to 
bring up. That of course would be a drawback if she had to 
find another job. The main point is, she has lived here so long 
that she’s looked upon as a fixture. But I quite see — ” 

Mark interrupted. “I was thinking of her — not myself. I’m 
more than satisfied. She seems thoroughly capable and in every 
way a superior person. Too superior! I can’t imagine how she 
ever settled here or, to tell the truth, in what manner. Did my 
aunt treat her as a friend?” 

All Sir James’ chivalry rose in defence of the lonely woman at 
this unexpected question. 

“Undoubtedly. So did you. As regards Mrs. Grundy, this 
war has given her decent burial. Everywhere that one goes 
women are taking up men’s work: lady-gardeners, lady-chauffeurs. 
It’s a recognized thing — sex doesn’t count. Why should it in 
your case? I should say that if you turned her out you’d be 
blamed by the whole parish. She’s worked in your interests from 
first to last.” 

Mark nodded. 

“Then that’s settled. I’m much relieved by what you say.” 

Sir James drove the last nail home in his kindly argument. 

“She’s a war widow. It should count. That’s your excuse if 
there’s any talk. But there won’t be. She’s too much liked. 
Have you seen the child? A fine boy.” 

“Not yet.” 

Sir James stood up, an eye on the clock. 

“Of course, if you marry — ” He stopped, checked by Mark’s 
laugh, more natural now. 

“I look like running after women, don’t I?” He pointed to 
his ankle. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


248 

“They’ll run after you!” Sir James chuckled. “You’re a 
marked man — you be careful! Get Mrs. Cruikshank to protect 
you. There’s another use for her. She’s a fine woman.” A sly 
smile lifted the bristling, white moustache. “Gad, I shouldn’t 
mind having her as a bailiff myself, if she’d come! I expect she’ll 
marry again some day.” From under his bushy brows he watched 
the effect of this suggestion. 

Mark was puffing away at his pipe, calm and indifferent. But 
the worried look had left his face. 

“Then you’d leave everything in her hands, if you were in my 
place, for a time?” 

“I should. Judging from all I hear.” 

“It would be a relief,” Mark confessed. “I shall pick up the 
details pretty soon, but I don’t feel quite myself yet.” He passed 
a hand across his head as though it ached, his eyes half-closed. 

“You can hardly expect to,” said Sir James. “Is that the 
time? I must be off. Unless there’s any other matter in which 
I can help? I’m going on to the Cathcarts’ with a letter from 
Roger. By the way, they’re friends of Mrs. Cruikshank’s. She 
knew them in her girlhood days, so Babs told my wife.” 

Mark was struggling out of his chair. 

“What was her name before she married?” 

“Fane. Good people, I believe. Well, she looks it, doesn’t she? 
Now, don’t you stir — I ought to know my way out of here by 
now.” He gave his jolly ringing laugh. “D’you remember that 
night — ” He broke off. “Dash it! I nearly forgot to give you 
Rachel’s message. When will you come and dine with us? Or 
lunch, if it’s more convenient? Of course we’ll send the carriage 
for you. You’ve only to fix the day.” 

“That’s very kind.” Mark hesitated. “Honestly, Mallison, 
I’d rather wait for a little. I want to try and sort things out in 
my own mind. Just at present I feel at a disadvantage. You 
understand, don’t you?” 

Sir James nodded. 

“All right. But we sha’n’t let you become a hermit. That’s 
what poor old Beverley’s done. You know both his boys were 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


249 


killed? I force an entrance there sometimes. He curses me and 
then admits when Fm going that it’s done him good. My wife 
will be coming round to see you, and Ruth — she’s the only girl at 
home. You remember her?” 

“As a child,” Mark smiled reminiscently. “My last memory of 
her, I believe, was climbing the walnut tree. I suppose those 
escapades are over?” 

“I’m afraid so.” Sir James sighed. “I don’t like their growing 
up. It’s the beginning of losing them.” 

Despite his visitor’s objections, Mark insisted on seeing him to 
the front door. As he lingered in the porch, he heard a child’s 
irrepressible laugh. It floated down the dark staircase, followed 
by an Irish voice: 

“Will ye be still? Hush, then!” 

Mark turned back into the hall. 

“Is that Anthony?” he called up. “Can you bring him down? 
I’d like to see him.” 

“I will, sir.” 

An old woman, stout and motherly, came to the bend of the 
stairs, a child held in her arms. 

Mark looked eagerly at the pair, descending the slippery steps 
with caution. 

“I suppose you’re ‘Dillon’? I’ve been wanting to thank you for 
all you did for my aunt.” He sat down on the hall chair and 
watched the approach of the nurse and her charge. 

“I’ll not be needing thanks, sir. A pleasure it was to wait on 
her. Patient and like a saint at the last.” She set Anthony on 
his feet. “Say how d’ye do to the gintleman?” 

But Anthony would only stare. 

“Will he come to me?” asked Mark. 

Dillon, for answer, lifted him up. Her heart was too full for 
words. She watched the man take the child and balance him 
easily on his knee, an arm round the small, soft body. There was 
a tender light in his eyes. 

Anthony gravely studied Mark. 

“Big,” he announced solemnly. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


250 

“A bit bigger than you, old chap.” Mark smiled into the 
wondering face with its shell-pink colouring, wide dark eyes and 
rosy mouth. “Though you’ve sturdy legs, haven’t you?” His 
hand passed over the dimpled knees in a furtive caress. “What 
fine shoes!” 

Anthony stuck out his feet and gazed at them with an air of 
pride. 

There came a light step on the stairs. Mark looked up. Sa- 
bine stood there as though suddenly turned to stone, her gaze 
riveted on the group. 

“We’re making friends,” Mark informed her. 

She did not answer. He waited, surprised, noting the tense 
look on her face. Her lips were compressed as though in pain. 
It flashed across him suddenly that the picture of her son on his 
knee had recalled poignant memories of the dead soldier. He 
felt troubled. Luckily at this juncture the child created a di- 
version. The tip of a silk handkerchief, tucked into Mark’s cuff, 
had attracted his attention. A tug. Out it came, streaming. 
Anthony chuckled with delight. 

“You young rascal ! ” Mark stooped impulsively and kissed the 
cheek, smooth and firm, of the little culprit. He heard the old 
nurse beside him catch her breath with a muttered word. When 
he raised his head, to his amazement he saw that her eyes were 
full of tears. “Am I keeping him too long?” he asked, to cover 
the awkward situation. “I expect you want to get him out while 
the sun lasts.” He delivered his burden into Dillon’s out-stretched 
arms. 

“Thank you, sir.” She struggled for speech. “I’m hopin’ 
you’re feeling better, sir?” 

“Oh, I’m all right. Glad to be home.” He looked past her. 
The staircase was empty. Sabine had noiselessly withdrawn. 
“He’s a fine little chap. I should think his mother must be proud 
of him.” He lowered his voice, adding gently, touched by the 
wistful gaze of the Irish eyes in that wrinkled old face, “Hard 
luck, about the father.” 

“It is that, sir,” said Dillon gravely. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


M ARK was not left for long to the seclusion he craved. 
His old friends rallied round him and Lady Mallison 
refused to accept his excuses. At the end of a fortnight 
she carried him off triumphantly for a week-end. 

Sabine watched Mark's departure in a victoria beside his 
hostess, after an ineffectual protest against usurping the best seat. 
Opposite him sat a young girl with bobbed hair and laughing 
eyes, well dressed in country fashion and bearing the imprint of 
her caste. Ruth, quite ready to play the part designed for her 
by her parent, slyly apprizing Mark as a potential Boaz! 

Sabine judged her as barely twenty, but a twenty of the era of 
war which had the effect of a forcing house for immature femi- 
ninity. Despoiled of the old excitements, coming-out balls and 
social functions hedged about with orthodoxy, the war-time 
maiden could enjoy a freer form of gaiety in the shape of unre- 
stricted converse with men on leave at camp concerts and hurriedly 
arranged dances, all more or less unchaperoned, where she did not 
attempt serious war work. With the increasing dearth of men 
in the countryside, competition for the favours of those remaining, 
and, more still, for the ebb and flow of officers in all classes, had 
multiplied and resulted in a doubtful form of sport, girls no 
longer admired and courted, but themselves the Dianas of the 
chase. 

Something in Ruth's pointed face as she leaned forward to 
speak to Mark warned Sabine of her intention. The remark 
evoked a laugh from the man, and the mother smiled indulgently. 
For Lady Mallison knew her daughter and deeply desired the 
match. Ruth's charm would not last; it was only the effect of 

251 


252 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


youth. The too thin, boyish figure would become angular. Al- 
ready she was a trifle sallow and there was a bitter-sweet atmos- 
phere about her little shafts of humour that betrayed her 
discontent. When excitement was wanting she was moody, at 
moments hysterical. Mark could offer her a position in which 
looks would not count, a definite standing in the country backed 
by his ample means. 

Sir James did not share in his wife’s project, but his objections, 
based upon the crippled condition of the man and the supersti- 
tions that surrounded the old house at Lidding St. Mary, were 
waved aside as negligible. In his first match the baronet had 
proved himself a masterful husband, exacting obedience from his 
wife and only daughter, now married. The position had been 
reversed. The present Lady Mallison “managed him” — her own 
expression — and Ruth could turn him round her finger. She 
was his favourite among the trio of girls which his second union 
had brought him, next in his heart to his soldier son. Yet he 
held no share in the understanding, barely voiced, between mother 
and daughter. 

Some of this Sabine divined, as she stood, screened by the 
muslin curtain in the nursery, a prey to helpless rebellion. Was 
she to efface herself and see the father of her child marry this 
chit of a girl? For the first time she was jealous of Youth, aware 
of her own maturity. Could its shallow appeal tempt Mark — 
its virginity and inexperience? 

For the past fortnight she had been passive, too nervous to 
exert her charm. But now Sabine realized that the progress in 
their friendship which had brought her a mixture of pain and 
pleasure was no guarantee of the future. She must enter the 
field of competition. 

The fact was a sting to her pride. In the old days she had 
never stooped wilfully to attract a man. She had left all initia- 
tive to her lover, save in the crucial hour when her fate had been 
decided. Newer methods menaced her. She must meet Ruth on 
her own ground. 

As the carriage vanished up the lane she turned away from the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


2 S3 


window, and paused before the looking-glass, critical, studying 
her appearance. Slowly her stormy brow cleared. In imagina- 
tion she saw Ruth’s face, sharp- featured, lacking colour, with its 
assumption of innocence and the challenge of the sly blue eyes 
under their faintly bistre lids, reflected there by her own. Here 
was no mother for Mark’s children, no depth of feeling to stir his 
passion. 

A flaw in her own costume caught her attention, as insignificant 
trifles will in a captious mood. The sleeves were too full, spoil- 
ing the line from shoulder to shoulder. She went out in search of 
Dillon, a plan forming in her mind. 

Anthony spent a blissful day in charge of the housemaid, who 
was his favourite slave. Dillon was closeted with her mistress, 
overhauling her scattered wardrobe. There were beautiful clothes 
hidden away; for Sabine had been expecting her lover to return 
on leave, before the news of his disaster, and had prepared ac- 
cordingly, careless of expense. 

The old nurse was in her glory, once more the experienced 
maid, rejoicing to feel the smooth touch of fine materials under 
her fingers. Her voice hummed like a top as Sabine, busy and 
critical, tried on a series of dainty blouses or frowned down at 
the lines of a skirt. 

“It’s through the eyes that a man feels before he knows what’s 
amiss with him,” Dillon asserted, on her knees, pinning back an 
errant fold in a deceptively simple tea-gown. “There now, Miss 
Sabine, dear, have a look at yourself!” She rose to her feet, 
stout and triumphant. “Thim sleeves took my fancy when it 
first came home from Madame Owen. You could play the piano 
fine in thim and they’d fall away from your arms and show the 
illegant shape to Himself.” 

Sabine laughed. The old woman’s face was so serious. 

“You don’t mince matters, Dilly!” 

The Irish eyes looked up, twinkling. 

“I niver had the diver tongue, but I know what suits you, 
m’m. You was meant for a dainty lady. It’s gone to me heart, 
since Himself returned, to see you about as if in mourning.” She 


254 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


gathered up the severe serge gown that Sabine had discarded. 
“You’ll be giving this to Johnson, perhaps? It would come in 
grand for her bottom drawer.” There was a wheedling note in 
her voice. 

Sabine was trying the effect of a soft-toned knot of flowers 
tucked in the loose-swathed belt. 

“If you like.” Then she retracted the words. “No, I’ll keep 
it. One never knows. Supposing we had to leave here, Dilly?” 

“Ye will not.” Dillon smiled wisely. “Not if the man’s human! 
There’s a way they do be wearin’ the hair would suit you, I’m 
thinking, Miss Sabine.” With her eyes half-closed she studied 
her mistress. “Its not iveryone could afford it — not them as 
goes in for rat’s tails frizzed out over their ears.” This was a 
sly hit at Ruth. “But you’ve plinty of hair, the Saints be 
praised.” She crossed herself, superstitious. A direct compli- 
ment challenged Fate. “I saw a picture in the Tatler of a lady 
of title — not that it counts nowadays!” She gave a sniff. 
“There’s plinty of Lady Gulls about. But, as I was saying, I 
could try it this evening, if you’re willin’, m’m?” 

“Very well.” Sabine slipped out of the soft tea-gown and 
yawned with luxurious satisfaction, her white arms stretched 
above her head. 

The contrast between them and her hands, still browned by the 
summer’s sun, arrested Dillon’s attention. 

“If you’ll be taking my advice you’ll slape in them owld wash- 
ing gloves, with cold crame rubbed in first.” 

“Not if I know it! You’ll be wanting to make up my face 
next.” 

“ ’Dade and it don’t need it, dearie!” The old woman smiled 
fondly. “Not that a little touch of crame worked in with the 
fingers is wasted when the wind sharpens. Better still, butter- 
milk. I could get that with aise, and Cook know nothing. I will 
— this blessed night.” 

Thus another feminine pair conspired to win the lonely man 
from the path of celibacy. Sir James had been right in his 
prophecy. Mark had no need to “run after women.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


255 


In his turn, Sir James watched his daughter flutter round their 
guest, at one moment claiming him as the friend of her childhood 
days, reviving stories of the schoolroom, chaffing Mark on equal 
terms, boyish yet provocative, at another almost mature in her 
manner, keeping Mark at arm’s length yet luring him on deliber- 
ately, playing upon his worn nerves. She even invented a trifling 
quarrel that worried the victim, unsuspicious of the truth: it 
afforded her a chance of an outlet for sentiment in the process 
known as “making it up”! 

It tried Sir James’s loyalty hard. He saw through the girl’s 
manoeuvres and resented them. She was throwing herself de- 
liberately at Mark’s head. And his wife looked on, apparently 
blind. His honest male exasperation produced no effect. Ruth 
was “only a child”! He must not put “ideas” into her head! 

Although he liked and respected his guest, both as a soldier 
and a man, Sir James drew a deep breath of relief when the hour 
of departure drew near. Lady Mallison had arranged to see 
Mark home in the carriage. At the last moment she pleaded a 
headache and deputed Ruth to fill her place. 

It was a grey afternoon, with swiftly moving heavy clouds, the 
sea flicked by a cold wind, that sent white horses galloping. 
Gulls were flying far inland, conscious of the coming gale. In 
the half light the country lanes, strewn with leaves, and the 
rotting banks held a forlorn, autumnal note. Ruth, too, seemed 
to feel the moist depression in the air. She pulled the rug tighter 
round her with a shiver and made this an excuse to draw close 
to Mark’s side. 

“It’s getting chilly, isn’t it?” She snuggled against him like a 
child, seeking warmth. 

“I oughtn’t to have let you come. I hope you won’t catch 
cold?” He studied the face near his shoulder with its fluff ed-out 
fair hair, pointed chin and petulant lips, a red thread against her 
pallor. 

“Do you think I would let you go home alone?” Her gaze 
wandered over his face and paused for a moment at his mouth, 
following some secret thought. 


256 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Why not?” he looked surprised. 

She shrugged her shoulders, suddenly pettish. 

“That’s all the thanks I get! All you soldier men are spoilt!” 

Mark’s blue eyes twinkled. 

“I like being spoilt. I’m — most humbly grateful.” 

“You sound ‘humble’!” She laughed, piqued. Suddenly she 
thrust a hand through his arm and her manner changed. “I say, 
old dear, don’t let’s quarrel. I’m in a rotten mood to-day. It’s 
so dismal at home now, with Roger and the girls away. I shall 
miss you awfully. That’s the truth of the matter.” 

“Shall you?” He was touched. 

She nodded her head. With the action, her short hair was 
tossed forward over her cheeks in a fluffy mass, fine as silk and 
fairer by contrast with her black velvet cap. She darted a side- 
long glance at Mark from beneath her lashes. 

“And you?” she asked. 

He returned the look, inwardly puzzled by the variety of her 
moods with which he could not keep pace. 

“I’m used to being alone. You must come sometimes and cheer 
me up. Will you?” 

“Yes.” The hand that lay in the crook of his arm gave it a 
faint, lingering pressure. “I often ride past your house and I’m 
sure mother wouldn’t mind. It isn’t as if we hadn’t been children 
together, is it?” she added. 

Mark missed the subtle intention, but the touch of propriety 
amused him. Besides they had not been children together. His 
playmate had been her half-sister. 

“I can supply a chaperon, if necessary,” he told her, smiling. 

She looked up sharply. 

“You mean Mrs. Cruikshank? Your — housekeeper?” 

The word held a faint slur which he resented. 

“Hardly that. She’s more like a bailiff — she looks after my 
estate.” The carriage drew up as she spoke. “Why, here we are! 
How quick it’s been. You’ll come in?” He reached for his crutches. 

She made a show of hesitation that roused, as intended, his 
obstinacy. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


257 


“I don't — think so.” 

“Oh yes, you must. And have a good warm by the fire before 
you start home again.” 

“Well, it would be nice. My feet are frozen!” She opened the 
blue gate and dropped him a curtsy, her eyes dancing, moved by 
a sudden stir of excitement at the prospect of this chance for 
flirtation. 

When they reached the porch, Mark discovered that he had 
left his key behind. 

“Shall I ring?” Ruth forestalled his effort, pulling the old- 
fashioned knob. Then she bent forward, listening. “There’s 
some one singing,” she told her host. 

“Impossible.” Mark frowned. 

Johnson, at last, opened the door. A wave of melody swept 
out like a warm breath in their faces. 

“Who is it?” he asked sharply. 

“Only Mrs. Cruikshank, sir.” The maid looked rather flurried. 
“We didn’t expect you home so soon. I’ll tell her.” She was 
retreating quickly but Mark checked her. 

“No, don’t.”. He moved forward, Ruth beside him, that golden 
voice in his ears. 

“Che fard . . . senza Euridice ...” 

Bewildered, yet aware of the beauty of the rich notes with their 
passionate touch of loneliness, Mark advanced into the drawing- 
room. 

The music faltered, then stopped abruptly. Sabine rose from 
the piano. 

“Oh!” she looked taken aback. “I’m sorry, Mr. Vallance. I 
thought — ” She paused. “You said for dinnet ” She gathered 
together hastily some sheets of music and was preparing to pass 
the pair when Mark turned to his companion. 

“I don’t think you know Mrs. Cruikshank, do you?” 

“No.” Ruth stared at Sabine. “How d’ye do?” Her voice 
was careless, her manner coolly patronizing. 

Sabine made a slight inclination of her head, graceful yet full 
of pride. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


258 

“Would you like some tea?” she asked Mark. 

“No, thanks. We’ve had some. But Miss Mallison found the 
drive a cold one, so I brought her in to thaw by the fire.” He 
felt a little vexed with Ruth for her omission to shake hands. 
The trivial courtesy would not have hurt her. “I’m nfraid we’re 
interrupting your singing?” 

“Oh, no. I was only practising.” Sabine smiled, reading his 
thoughts. “I so rarely get a chance.” 

Ruth was studying her dress, made of some soft, blue material 
that hung loosely yet defined the lines of the wearer’s perfect 
figure. It was cut a little low at the throat, and it showed the 
white, rounded neck on which the head with its dark hair was so 
proudly balanced. Regal she looked. The word flashed into 
Mark’s mind, unbidden, as the right description. Beside her, the 
girl in her Harris tweed, with the velvet cap wedged crookedly 
over her faintly marked brows appeared elfish, a half- formed 
creature. The resemblance was heightened by her expression, 
scornful and slightly shrewish. 

Before he could think of any remark to break the constrained 
silence, Sabine had reached the door. It closed behind her noise- 
lessly. Mark frowned for a second, then turned to his guest. 

“Well? Come and warm yourself.” 

Ruth followed him to the fireplace and extended a small foot 
in a brogued shoe to the cheerful glow. 

“She sings well.” There was suave impertinence in her voice. 
“Perhaps she has been on the stage? She looks rather theatrical.” 

“I don’t think so.” Mark spoke curtly. He divined, with a 
sense of discomfort, the feminine malice of the suggestion. 

Ruth smiled. 

“Are you fond of music?” 

“Very.” He leaned on the mantelpiece and stirred the topmost 
of the logs with the point of his crutch. 

“Then, here goes!” She laughed lightly, drew off her gloves, 
tossed them aside and danced across to the piano. “Now, Vll 
sing to you!” 

Dashing off the opening chords, she started, in a reedy voice, 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


2 59 

a popular song from a revue . The success depended more upon 
the action accompanying the words than on any musical quality. 
She carried it off very well, barely touching the high notes and 
emphasizing the sentiment of the drawn-out refrain. 

Again Mark was attracted by the queer mixture of childishness 
and precocity she exhibited. He could not make out if she un- 
derstood the veiled innuendo that was supposed to add spice to 
the chorus. He decided that she did not. For at the conclusion 
she looked up, wide-eyed and ingenuous. 

“I don’t hear any clapping?” 

Mark laughed and cried: 

“Encore!” 

“No. It’s come much too late!” She closed the piano, shrug- 
ging her shoulders. “As I said before, you’re utterly spoilt! 
This is the way one leaves the platform.” Bowing gravely to 
right and left, she returned, with a dignified air to his side — a 
perfect piece of comedy acting. “But I’m not as tall as your 
housekeeper! A prima donna must have a ‘presence’.” Her lips 
tilted. She whispered to Mark, “And that requires — well, not 
only nerve, but — ” She made a swift gesture suggesting ample 
proportions, then pressed a slender hand against her thin and 
childishly formed bosom. “And now, I’m off. Good-bye!” She 
picked up her gloves, hesitated and pounced on a little piece of 
fluff from the carriage rug on his coat. She examined this criti- 
cally. “I thought it was — oh, never mind! Don’t tell Mother 
I came in. After all, she mightn’t like it. No, you’re not to 
move!” Before he could stop her, hampered by his lameness, 
she had opened the French window and slammed it to behind her 
back. 

He could see her running down the path. At the gate she 
turned and blew him a kiss. Then she was gone like a will-o’-the 
wisp through the arched blue door. 

A moment later he heard the trot of the horses’ hoofs down the 
lane and caught a glimpse of the coachman’s hat and whip over 
the grey wall. But the peace of the old room was shattered. He 
felt restless and very tired, at once excited and depressed. 


26 o 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


A glimmer of white on the piano arrested his wandering glance, 
and he swung himself wearily across the narrow intervening space. 
The treasure trove proved to be a handkerchief in fine lawn, redo- 
lent of some Eastern perfume. He put it aside with a sniff of 
disgust. Like many men he disliked strong scents and, especially, 
on a woman of his own class. It warred too, with his conception 
of the young girl’s temperament, capricious yet virginal, still 
sweet with the freshness of childhood. 

Clever too. He fidgeted. In that slow progress from the piano, 
in the poise of the head and the supple swing of her youthful 
body had been a distinct caricature of Mrs. Cruikshank. Had 
Ruth deliberately mimicked her? He stared down at the ivory 
keys. Women were strange creatures. 

On the little rosewood block that made a sliding shelf for a 
candle, something was shining; a further trophy but with a mas- 
culine suggestion. He was bending to examine it when the door 
opened and Sabine’s voice caused him to look up hastily. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to interrupt you.” She stood, hesitant on the 
threshold. “I saw Miss Mallison drive away and I thought you 
had gone to your study. I left a ring on the piano.” 

“Is this it?” He held it up. 

“Yes.” She came forward. “It belonged to my father. I’m 
always afraid of losing it as it’s rather large. I take it off when I 
play. Thank you.” Gravely she slipped it on the second finger 
of her hand. 

Mark had noticed the crest and motto. The memory of Ruth’s 
conduct to this woman of gentle birth, shadowed by her widow- 
hood, returned to him with inward discomfort. 

“I feel tempted to suggest that you should leave the ring off 
now — if it has that desirable result? I’m so fond of good 
music.” 

She smiled. 

“But you’ve had a concert already.” There was mischief in her 
eyes; she had heard Ruth’s performance and without the pretty 
mannerisms it had sounded very amateur. 

“Oh, that!" He laughed back. “I didn’t mean a popular song.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


261 


Sabine was leaning against the piano, turning the ring on her 
slim finger, the glow of the firelight on her hair. Her vitality, 
the more marked for the sense of reserved force about her, with 
its subtle feminine mystery, attracted the man watching her. 
How still she was; like some deep swift stream, her eyes brown 
pools touched by sunlight. She looked up and met his gaze. 

"I’ll sing, with pleasure. On one condition.” 

“And that?” Intrigued, he smiled back. 

“That you’ll lie down on your sofa and rest. You look worn 
out! Also” — her lips curved with a faint mockery — “that 
you’ll cry ‘ Bast a!’ the very moment you feel that you’ve had 
enough.” 

“I will, if the gong doesn’t sound first! I promise that. Al- 
though I’m not perfectly sure that I understand what ‘Basta’ 
means? It hasn’t a very polite ring.” 

She settled herself on the music-stool. 

“It means ‘Enough! ’ — forcibly. It’s what one says to a beggar 
in Italy when he’s importunate.” 

Mark laughed. 

“Then I guessed right! I’m much more likely to be the beggar 
when you begin to sing. Where’s your music?” 

She shook her head. 

“I play without, as a rule.” Her fingers drifted down the 
keys. “I used to sing to your aunt.” She paused for a second 
and added softly, “To you too, so I know what you like!” 

“Did you?” His eyes were full of wonder. He went back 
slowly to the sofa. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


HE weather conspired to help Sabine. It rained with the 



persistency that overtakes the West Country, when the 


wind comes up from the sea with an Atlantic depression 
behind it. 

Music became Mark’s supreme resource. He would sit in an 
arm-chair by the fire, his eyes fixed on the graceful woman out- 
lined against the piano, listening to song after song, begging 
for more until she, herself, would laughingly cry “ Basta !” 

Anthony, too, held a share in Mark’s slow convalescence. The 
pair became sworn allies. With a curious mixture of emotions, 
Sabine would watch her son on Mark’s knee, absorbed in this 
new and engrossing companion and using all his powers of coaxing 
to induce “Big Man” to “tell a ’tory.” 

Mark invented wonderful tales of the sea, in which mermaids 
and pirates figured, with palaces made of coral that held treasure 
from Spanish galleons, guarded by sharks and flying fish. From 
this grew further occupation. The creative instinct was stirred 
from its slumber and Mark went back to his writing. 

But there were many interruptions from without, Lady Malli- 
son and Ruth dropping in on some pretext to cheer up the 
wounded man. Occasionally the young girl would come alone. 
She invested these visits with the charm of stolen delights, cleverly 
screened by a childish air of mischievous impulse. Mark “mustn’t 
tell!” It was “such fun!” She had only “popped in for a 
minute!” 

Steve, holding Ruth’s mare, would wink behind her back at 
Johnson; but the respect and loyalty due to the name of Vallance 
prevented open gossip. 


262 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


263 


The attraction of her youth and gaiety was not lost on Mark. 
She roused him from the heavy depression that descended on him 
when he brooded over his physical helplessness. She was stimu- 
lating. Unconsciously he reacted to her love of flirtation. Yet 
there were moments when she repelled him by her shallowness 
and lack of heart, though he did not analyse the impression. He 
told himself he was getting old, no company for twenty summers 
— and sighed! He was haunted, too, by a sense of responsibility. 
The great house at Lidding St. Mary would mean a different 
manner of life, and need — he shrank from the thought — an 
heir. 

Lady Mallison had skilfully sown the seeds of the notion. The 
whole county looked to Mark to preserve sorely-tried traditions 
and pass on an ancient name. She even suggested a wife for him 
in the shape of a (plain) neighbour’s daughter! She would smile 
at his silent protest when he pointed to his crutches. That would 
all come right in time and, if by chance his lameness persisted, 
in many a girl’s eyes it would prove an added attraction. He had 
suffered for his country. She was a mother and she knew . 

Here the perilous topic would lapse, but the speech found its 
mark. He caught himself studying Ruth from a new, disturbing 
standpoint. She roused in him unrest, not passion. But re- 
membering the days of satiety in the company of his dead wife, 
the disillusion and frequent quarrels, he began to doubt whether 
ardent love was a supreme factor in marriage. The question of 
children was more important. A boy, for instance, like Anthony. 
To watch the faith and devotion grow in those wide eyes turned 
to his, and to feel young life about him? This was the cure for 
loneliness. 

But much depended on the mother. His thoughts would 
wander to Mrs. Cruikshank and come up dead against the wall of 
her widowhood. Had she loved the dead soldier? Assuredly. 
She was not a woman to give herself without genuine passion, and 
now her heart lay in his grave. He felt a grudging dislike to the 
man. An Australian? This roused in him a jealousy that took 
the form of insular prejudice. The virile but shadowy picture of 


264 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Cruikshank stood between them when her voice filled the room 
with a throbbing joy or sank into a note of appeal that breathed 
of unhappiness. She was singing to that desolate spot marked by 
a wooden cross. 

And, in turn, Sabine would watch Mark, trying to read in his 
bent face, propped on the well-shaped hand as he lounged, listen- 
ing, by the fire, some subtle response, knowing him moved yet 
aware of an obstacle, some secret defence built about him. 

Was it Ruth, she asked herself? She hated the young girl. 

Dillon alone was optimistic. There was Anthony, bless his 
heart! And Nature at her old game — the hidden link of father 
and son. Mark was learning the lesson of love. It only needed 
courage and patience. 

November came in morosely, but with stirring news from the 
Front and a scramble for the morning papers. As if that most 
uncertain factor, the English climate, had suddenly decided to be 
patriotic, the weather changed. In a burst of sunshine, the wet 
fields smiled at the sky and the hazel grove with its bare boughs 
was alive with the music of blackbird and thrush. 

Mark had been in one of those moods which had at first 
startled Johnson, taciturn and moved, for no cause, to swift irrita- 
bility. He had rung for her in the middle of breakfast with the 
old complaint. She had flounced out to inform Cook that “the 
master was the limit!” 

“Fussing again about a smell — he’s got apples on the brain! 
I’m to pull out the sideboard now, to see if one ’as slipped be- 
hind it. With the room turned out on Tuesday! It’s worse than 
the old lady.” 

Cook agreed. 

“He takes it from ’er. A rare one she was for corners, though 
I wouldn’t speak hardly of the dead! To see her pass her hand 
round a saucepan you’d think I’d been poisoning the ’ouse!’ 

She broke off as there came a clatter of hoofs in the yard. A 
clear, shrill voice imperiously called for Steve. 

“It’s that Miss Mallison again.” Johnson had flown to the 
window. “Setting ’er cap at Mr. Mark, and bold as brass! Now 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 265 

if you and me was to call on a single man, there’d be a pretty how 
de do. I wonder ’er ladyship allows it.” 

“She’s thinking of the place,” said Cook. “And ’er daughter 
up at Lidding St. Mary! Well, I for one sha’n’t stay if she’s to 
be the new missus.” 

They watched the girl spring down and throw the reins over to 
Steve, turning towards the shrubbery, the apron of her habit 
flapping, indifferent to the effect produced by this scanty cover- 
ing. 

“Bold as brass,” Johnson repeated. She giggled. “If I ’ad 
legs like hers, I wouldn’t be so proud of ’em!” 

“Your Fred’s got better taste.” The buxom cook enjoyed the 
jest, but Johnson, though inwardly pleased, bridled. 

“Now, Milly, none of yer nonsense! Remember I’m a married 
woman. I must get to my pantry now — this sunshine shows up 
the silver. Later, if you’ll give me a hand, we’ll pull out that old 
sideboard. And leave it out!” Her face was vindictive. 

Cook, resenting the slur upon her single state, retaliated. 

“Then you’d best sweep be’ind it first. Marriage ’asn’t im- 
proved yer work.” 

Meanwhile Ruth had found her way to the front door which 
stood open, letting in the welcome warmth. She broke, unan- 
nounced, into Mark’s study. 

“Hello!” Her gay voice startled him where he sat at his work 
before scattered sheets of manuscript. 

“Why, Ruth!” He blinked at her with the lost expression of 
the author recalled from the pleasant world of imagination to that 
of fact. 

“Yes, ‘Ruth’ I” She mimicked him and advanced, a mis- 
chievous smile on her face. “I had to come — such wonderful 
news! What will you give me for it, Mark?” She looked very 
fresh and young, a soft colour in her cheeks, due to excitement 
and exercise. The plain, dark habit suited her and, under her 
riding hat, her hair shone like floss silk. 

As he hesitated she swung herself up on the corner of his 
writing table and laughed into his solemn face. 


266 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“The most wonderful news,” she repeated, surveying a slender 
calf encased in a brown top boot. “State your price?” 

Mark recovered his wits. 

“What would you like?” He studied her with a mischievous 
expression, tempted by her proximity. He had only to stretch out 
his right arm and he had her at his mercy. A sudden recklessness 
possessed him. Why not? Here was a charm against his recur- 
rent moods of depression — youth and health and high spirits. 

She watched him under her fair lashes. As he leaned nearer, 
playfully, with her riding whip, she fenced him off. 

“Fll be generous and tell you first. Hold your breath! The 
Armistice was signed at five o’clock this morning.” 

“Never!” The unexpected news sobered him. Instinctively 
he straightened his shoulders. “Thank God! Have you any de- 
tails? How did you hear?” 

“Colonel Baird telephoned to father whilst we were having 
breakfast. From the camp — it’s official. I mounted Dinah and 
galloped off to the Cathcarts’. And then” — she smiled — “I 
thought of you. Isn’t it splendid?” 

Mark nodded. 

“So Roger’s safe?” Instinctively his mind had turned to her 
home circle and to his little friend, Babs. 

“Yes, we hope so.” She spoke lightly. Was it courage or in- 
difference? She had never seemed troubled about her brother. 
Before he could thrust aside the doubt, she went on with more 
feeling in the eager girlish voice. “So are you! There’s no 
chance now of your being sent back to the Front.” 

“There never was.” He smiled grimly. 

“Oh, I don’t know! But it’s such a relief! I always dread 
a man going back who’s been wounded twice — there seems 
a fatality about it.” She shuddered. “That’s why — I’m so 
happy.” 

Here was the right opening for sentiment, offered him ingenu- 
ously — or so he thought! Then why did a wave of indecision 
flood him, cooling his desire and checking the words on his lips? 

He could feel a certain tension about her, and his own dis- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


comfort mounting up. Desperately he looked past her thro 
the window, avoiding her eyes. On the paved path to the ga. 
stood a mail cart with Anthony in it and the faithful Dillon in 
attendance. Beyond them Sabine hovered, seeing her son off for 
his outing. Bareheaded, she bent down and drew the rug tighter 
about him, then, yielding to a sudden impulse, tenderly kissed the 
little fellow. Her face, when she raised it, seemed to shine with 
the glory of motherhood. Mark instinctively caught his breath, 
the veil at last torn from his eyes. Here was his true ideal. A 
woman of fine mental power, beautiful and talented, yet above all 
things a mother — that sacred word which holds for a man the 
echo of his childhood joys and the only victory over death: a 
living claim on the future. 

He was torn ruthlessly from his dream by a sharp ejaculation. 

“Ah!” Ruth had followed his gaze. All her hysterical spite 
leaped forth. “Your housekeeper! It seems to me she has a 
pretty easy time. Do you let her go out the front way?” 

He turned, confused and aware of his silent discourtesy. 

“Fm sorry, I was — thinking,” he stammered. “Mrs. Cruik- 
shank? Yes, of course.” 

He was startled by the girl’s expression. She looked venomous, 
her lip caught between her sharp white teeth, her nostrils scorn- 
fully dilated. She reminded him of his dead wife in one of her 
violent fits of temper. 

His brain worked swiftly. What an escape! He forced a laugh, 
disconcerted yet conscious of a strange excitement. 

“You see what I am! Your splendid news sent me promptly 
into the clouds. That’s what comes of living alone! I haven’t 
even thanked you yet.” 

“I don’t want thanking.” Moodily she watched him under her 
pale lashes. “Of course, I thought of you first. A wounded 
soldier and — old friend.” 

“It was a real proof of friendship ” He struggled on, subtly 
aware that he had failed her at the crisis, yet resisting the im- 
pression. “I sha’n’t forget it. Don’t you think we ought to cele- 
brate the occasion? Is it too early for Sloe gin? There’s some 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


t my aunt made long before we dreamed of war. Fll ring for 
jhnson — ” 

But Ruth checked him, as he was rising. 

“No, thanks. I must be off. I want to carry the news to the 
rector. I saw his son yesterday in the Sandy Lane with your 
Mrs. Cruikshank. Flirting !” She gave her shallow laugh, her 
narrowed eyes fixed on Mark. “I nearly gave him Sam Weller’s 
advice — to beware of widows — but refrained, as I thought it 
was unsportsmanlike!” She slipped down off the table and ad- 
justed her skirt. “So long!” then paused, and added plaintively, 
“What about my reward?” 

“You shall have it! The very next time that I go to Exeter. 
What would you like?” 

She pouted. “I can’t wait.” Her eyes met his daringly. 

“If there’s anything you fancy at Pratt’s?” Mark suggested 
provokingly. The next moment he felt the flick of her riding 
whip across his hand, already raised to bid her good-bye. 

“I’m not a child! You deserved it.” She stood there quivering 
with anger, hardly aware of her actions. 

Mark rose and reached for his crutches. 

“I daresay I did.” He hid his annoyance and smiled down into 
the flushed face from his superior height. “Give your mother my 
love and sincere congratulations. She must be thankful about 
Roger. Where’s your horse?” 

She did not answer, but moved away. She was conscious now 
of her folly. She heard the tap of his crutches behind her and 
turned on the threshold of the room to play forlornly her last 
card. 

“I can’t give a message. I should get into dreadful trouble if 
Mother knew that I came to see you — like this — alone.” 

He checked the retort on his tongue, that she did it without his 
invitation. Her change of moods, which he had found but lately 
so diverting, now produced exasperation. He tried to assume a 
fatherly air. 

“Then I don’t think we ought to risk it. Nice as it is to see 
you.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


269 


“It’s a little late to consider that!” she flashed back. “How- 
ever, I don’t suppose to-day anyone could find fault. Besides I 
was only in fun! After all these years — it’s too absurd! I shall 
run in again before long to see if you’ve got all your flags out. 
Can’t you come to us for the week-end and join in the celebra- 
tions? I’ll suggest to Father that he should ask you.” 

“Thanks very much.” His voice was dry. “I’m afraid it’s 
impossible. I’m due at Exeter on Monday. I’m still under treat- 
ment there.” 

He breathed more freely when at last they reached the porch, 
seeing the end of the interview. Haunting him was a sense of 
escape but he did not wish for a definite rupture with the daughter 
of his old friends. A further possibility that he dared not yet 
consider gave him the queer feeling of looking on at some comedy, 
a disinterested spectator. Had he ever admired Ruth? Im- 
possible! He glanced round him. The garden was empty. Over 
the wall he could hear Dillon replying to Anthony’s urgent ques- 
tions as she wheeled him down towards the sea, an indistinct 
murmur, interrupted by the squeaking of a wheel. “I must oil 
that,” thought Mark. Ruth had passed out of his mind. 

Steve brought round the mare and mounted the visitor. She 
fussed over the set of her skirt, covertly watching Mark as he 
leaned up against the doorway. 

He seemed to awake from a dream. 

“Well, thank you so much for coming. You’ve told Steve, I 
can see!” 

For the youth’s face was radiant. He was on the eve of being 
called up and the news had seemed a miracle. He grinned at his 
master, touching his cap, and obeyed Ruth’s nod of dismissal as 
she gathered up the reins. 

“Yes.” She seemed to hesitate. “I didn’t hurt your hand, did 
I? It was really — an accident.” Her voice was lowered, her 
eyes wistful. 

“Oh, that!” He laughed lightly. “I’m not made of sugar 
candy. I took it as a pledge of Peace !’ ? 

“Then you’ll forgive me?” 


270 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“My dear child!” 

Piqued, she touched up the mare, already fretting at the bit. 
Dinah bounded forward. 

“Good-bye, papa l” She was off with this last futile shaft, 
leaning back in the saddle and instinctively tightening the curb, 
ready to inflict on the horse punishment for the faults of man. 
Before she reached the end of the lane, Mark had regained the 
house. 

He was greeted by sounds of woe issuing from the dining-room 
and a quiet voice soothing Johnson on the verge of hysterics. 
Sabine, kneeling by the girl, who had collapsed in Mark’s chair, 
looked up and met his gaze. She answered his unspoken 
question. 

“A little upset — that’s all. She’s been worrying about her 
husband with all this heavy fighting lately. But good news never 
kills.” Her eyes, grave and compassionate, went back to the 
soldier’s wife. “Does it, Johnson? So, dry your tears. You’ll 
soon have your Fred home. Won’t that be nice?” She slipped an 
arm round the servant’s waist and helped her up. “We must go 
and tell Cook now.” 

Mark watched the pair pass him. He felt a lump rise in his 
throat. He glanced at Sabine. She nodded: 

“Splendid!” 

Peace. It had already come to his house with the presence of 
this woman, strong yet tender and merciful. How blind he had 
been these long grey weeks. 

Restless, he wandered to the porch. His mind was revolving 
round the fact of her widowhood. There had been no signs about 
her of any acute personal grief. At a moment too, when thoughts 
must turn towards the army of the dead. He had the swift in- 
tuition that now was the time to test the strength of the memories 
that held her bound. He could not wait! He smiled grimly, re- 
membering his indecision of an hour ago, facing Ruth. He sat 
down, listening for her step. He would know it in a thousand; 
that light tread, the faint rustle of her skirts as she moved, swift 
and sure, through his house, but with no sense of disturbance. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


271 

He pictured her at Lidding St. Mary, on the terrace sacred to the 
peacocks, a little child in her arms. 


Mark, in his dress clothes — that seemed to have shrunk unac- 
countably — was waiting in the drawing-room. There had been 
a strenuous interval of decanting the old port. He would not 
trust it to Johnson, now recovered and voluble, but uncertain in 
her actions. For this was to be a notable dinner. To celebrate 
the occasion, he had begged for Sabine’s company. The excuse 
seemed heaven-sent. 

“I shall dress,” he had told her, smiling. “Put on your best 
bib and tucker! And tell the gardener to rifle the greenhouse. 
Couldn’t we be reckless to-night and eat up all the meat for the 
week? They must have a feast in the kitchen too — I’ll see 
about wine. Friends, if they like.” To himself he added, “Keep 
’em quiet,” and rejoiced in his diplomacy. 

But now, nervousness possessed him. He was worried about 
his tie and the strain across his broad shoulders. He wished he 
had stayed in khaki. Those confounded crutches, for instance. 
A man looked a fool in evening dress, hobbling about on a pair of 
sticks! 

His annoyance had reached its height when the door opened 
and Sabine appeared. He wheeled round from his gloomy stare 
in the looking-glass and his frown vanished. 

Lovely she was, from head to foot, with a little air of shyness 
about her that added a new and youthful charm. 

His eyes ran over her and widened as he noted the pearls about 
her neck, a beautiful ring on her right hand, and, indistinctly, the 
rich though subdued effect of her silver-grey gown. 

Her shoulders were veiled, but the film of chiffon could not 
disguise their perfect shape nor the ivory whiteness of her skin. 
Regal she looked, a half smile curving the beautiful vivid lips. 

“Shall I do?” She dropped him a court curtsy. 

“You look — ” He stammered, and caught himself up. “Like 
the Dove of Peace!” 

She laughed lightly. 


272 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“So long as it isn’t a Gull,” she suggested. “Do you remember 
Henrietta?” 

“I do — to my cost! What’s become of her?” 

“I believe she’s ‘improving’ Park Lane.” Sabine drew nearer to 
the fire and stretched out a hand to the blaze where the light 
played on her ring, a Brazilian diamond, faintly yellow. It had 
belonged to her mother and had once graced royal fingers. “Lady 
Gull has been giving dances for American officers in town, Hen- 
rietta assisting her as she says ‘it keeps them out of temptation’.” 

“It would,” said Mark, “if they danced with her.” 

“But they dance with Lady Gull too.” Sabine gave him a 
mischievous glance. “She’s learning all the new steps. Tiring, 
she says, but ‘good for the figure’.” 

“Do you correspond?” 

“Hardly! But she wrote last week. ‘On a matter of business’ 
— to quote Henrietta’s favourite phrase. Her ladyship finds, 
with her social work, she has no time for domestic affairs. So 
many people want to know her. So she’s looking for a house- 
keeper. She threw out a broad hint in my direction and added — 
as a compliment, I imagine — that, with valuables in the house, 
she liked to know something about her staff.” 

“I never heard such impertinence!” Mark looked furious. 

“She didn’t mean it,” said Sabine simply. 

In the silence that followed, the gong rang. Mark could not 
guess what lay behind this lightly-told and trivial story. It af- 
forded a safety-valve for her pride. 

For Dillon alone was optimistic. This was to be the day of 
days! The Armistice left the old woman cold. Her sympathies 
moved in a narrower circle. Unknown to her mistress, she had 
stitched into a fold of the grey gown the worn medallion of a 
Saint, filched from a bog oak rosary. It could do no harm, she 
decided, with the secret belief that Sabine’s “charm” was quite 
sufficient in itself if the Powers of Good were too busy elsewhere. 
She scoffed at her darling’s secret fear which concerned Ruth and 
an engagement to be announced that very night, heralding Sabine’s 
own departure, and covered by this kindly dinner. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


2 73 


With her resolute pride, she had eased a way to the parting. 
Lady Gull would engage her. Mark need feel no hesitation in 
announcing the news of his marriage. But, seated at the well-laid 
table, Sabine caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror behind her 
host and a wave of rebellion flooded her. For the first time since 
his return she reverted to the scenes of her girlhood, heedless of 
Johnson’s curious glances as she talked with her old brilliancy of 
the life she had led with her father. To-night, at least, she would 
be herself, Mark’s equal, ahead of him in worldly experience, a 
companion fit for the wealthy Squire. 

As the meal progressed, her spirits rose. She was warmed by 
a sense of triumph. She roused not only amazement in Mark but 
a barely concealed admiration. They were united by the sense of 
belonging to the same world, the close link of inherited instincts. 
All the time, as wonder grew in Mark’s heart, joy grew with it 
and a strange new humility. With this fund of social experience 
how had she borne this quiet life, serene and outwardly contented? 
His “housekeeper”! He flinched at the thought. He recalled 
Ruth’s shrill voice. “Do you let her go out the front way?” He 
could have knelt, for Sabine’s pardon. 

At last coffee was handed round. Mark made a suggestion. 

“Let’s have it by the drawing-room fire. Then Johnson can 
clear quickly and they can settle down to supper.” 

Sabine agreed, with a little thrill of apprehension. What was 
coming? Her heart was beating rapidly as she led the way to 
the quiet old room. 

“You needn’t trouble to fetch the cups,” Mark said with an 
upward glance at Johnson, holding out the tray. “You can drink 
to Peace undisturbed. Have you everything you want?” 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Johnson, bursting with news, de- 
parted. Cook would say that Mrs. Cruikshank had been “telling 
tarradiddles”! A yacht? And all them swell visits, and friends 
at foreign embassies? 

Then what was she doing here, “drawing her wages regular” 
and married to a private soldier? Not even a sergeant ! It didn’t 
fit in. P’raps the champagne had gone to her head? She’d have 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


274 

to “step down in the morning !” Swank ! It was the master’s 
fault having her in “like that” to dinner. But she wasn’t a bad 
sort, all told — free-handed, and the same height. Didn’t “rag 
out” her clothes, either. 

There was silence in the drawing-room. Mark broke it awk- 
wardly: 

“I suppose I’m allowed to smoke?” He drew out his cigarettes. 

She nodded, staring into the fire, from her chair on the other 
side of the rug. 

“Will you sing to me by and by, just to make the evening 
perfect?” 

“If you feel like music.” Her voice was light. 

“I do — and I don’t.” His lips twitched. 

She glanced at him. 

“You’re not in pain?” 

He stared, his current of thought broken. His face cleared. 

“Oh, you mean my ankle? No, though it worries me in a 
different way.” He leaned forward, the cigarette still unlit be- 
tween his fingers. “I’m going to ask you a straight question. Do 
you think that a man, placed as I am, with obvious disabilities, 
has any right to dream of marriage? Is it fair on the woman?” 

He saw the colour ebb from her face. 

“I should say it depended on the — girl.” She controlled her 
voice with an effort. “Most girls nowadays would be proud to 
marry a wounded soldier and you have a great deal to offer.” 
She went on hurriedly, “That sounds horribly prosaic. Of course 
the real test is — love.” 

“Mine or hers?” 

“Both,” said Sabine. 

“There’s no doubt about mine.” 

In the husky words was a ring of passion that awoke vivid 
memories. Sabine could bear the strain no longer. 

“You’re trying to tell me of your engagement? That you have 
no further use for me.” She rose to her feet, her head flung 
back. “I understand. It’s — natural.” 

Unconsciously her hand was pressed to her bosom. The great 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


275 


diamond caught the light with the throb of her breath. She made 
a blind, stumbling movement forward and stopped with a sharp 
cry. For Mark, utterly forgetful, had sprung from his chair 
and stood swaying, without his crutches. 

“Oh, take care!” Her arms went out protectingly in an agony 
of solicitude that drove caution from her heart. “Mark! You’ll 
fall!” 

At the sound of his name on her lips and the loving grasp of her 
hands, he lost all vestige of control. 

“Sabine!” He clung to her, his head bending to her own. 

Half-supporting his body, she could feel him tremble as his 
mouth desperately sought hers and catch the little broken sob 
between his kisses. In a mist that swept away time and space 
she gave herself up to his passion. 


When sanity returned to her, she found she was kneeling by 
his chair, her hands on his shoulders, her eyes wet. 

‘‘Then it isn’t Ruth?” All the jealousy of the past weeks rang 
out in the words. 

“Heaven forbid! It’s you — if you’ll have me? A cripple. 
Can you stand it, Sabine?” 

“I’m proud — proud!” Her voice choked. “My soldier — 
who has fought — and conquered ” 

“But lost his memory,” he persisted. 

A curious look crossed her face. 

“The past is past. We have the future.” 

He gave a sharp sigh of relief. 

“It’s the past that has been scaring me,” he said simply. “I 
wasn’t sure.” 

“In what way?” Her eyes narrowed. 

“I was afraid that you might have loved Cruikshank too deeply 
to marry again.” 

A mad desire to laugh seized her, but she resisted it with a 
growing sense of confusion. She looked down, vaguely frightened. 
Should she tell him the whole truth? No. It would tarnish all 


2 j6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the beauty of this fresh and wonderful romance. She could bear 
Elizma’s voice, sweet and grave and full of promise. 

“Both of you free ... in all honour.” 

In her thankfulness it seemed an insult to the Power that had 
led her through tangled ways to this hour, forgiving the breath- 
less moment. 

Some day she would confess. For Anthony’s sake. Not yet. 

“We were only together a month,” she whispered. 

Surprised but relieved, he nodded gravely. 

“You love me, now?” 

“With all my heart.” 

“And you’ll marry me soon?” 

“If you’re quite sure — ” She paused. “What will your friends 
say?” 

“They’ll honour you — or cease to be friends.” He spoke 
sternly, remembering Ruth. “Besides, why should they not be 
pleased? If my father had been living he would have welcomed 
you — my mother too — to Lidding St. Mary.” 

She smiled proudly, seeing the light of truth in Mark’s blue 
eyes. It was no empty compliment. Then a cloud shadowed her 
face. 

“And Anthony?” She held her breath. “I — couldn't part 
from Anthony!” 

He stooped and kissed her, smoothing back a little tendril of 
dark hair that had drifted loose from the smooth mass. 

“It was your love for Anthony that opened my eyes to my own 
state. I believe I’m as fond of him as you are.” 

Her arms stole up round his neck. 

“Then if we shouldn’t — ” 

He guessed her thought. 

“He’d be Anthony Vallance, and fill my place.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


I T was this utterance of Mark’s that kept Sabine’s lips sealed 
in the happy days that followed — or so she persuaded her- 
self! Anthony was safeguarded. She refused to look be- 
yond the present or disturb the still waters around her; those 
waters of Lethe in which no ripple from the stone thrown in 
heedless youth dimmed the mirror of their love. 

In vain Elizma, let into the secret, wrote and implored her 
friend to clear up the mystery, for the sake of the child and their 
future life. Though at times she was tempted to take this advice, 
Sabine chose the pleasant path. She divined that Mark was still 
inclined to be jealous of the phantom husband. The initial lie 
called for others, or evasive silences that exasperated the crippled 
man, sensitive over the “lost years.” His “queer moods,” as 
Johnson called them, persisted at intervals. Sabine put them 
down to shell shock. But, in between, she noticed changes in the 
man’s character, a hardening of his sympathies and a Calvinistic 
attitude that matched the stem morality preached by his dead 
aunt. 

A case in the village underlined this unforeseen tendency; that 
of a new tenant who had posed as a soldier’s wife, the fraud de- 
tected through the absence of separation allowance. 

Mark had investigated the matter. It had ended in a week’s 
notice to quit the cottage by the ferry. He would listen to no 
appeal for mercy. She was a pernicious influence, and Lidding- 
combe should not shelter her. The fact that the woman, a 
stranger from Plymouth, had confessed the truth, under pressure, 
with the tearful assurance that her lover was only waiting for 
home leave to return and marry her, left him unmoved. She must 

277 


278 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


go, with her baby. A good riddance! This was his verdict. 
Surely Sabine agreed with him? 

She did not. His unconscious hypocrisy nettled her. But it 
emphasized the need for caution. She must choose her moment 
carefully. With the Fane casuistry she dismissed the village 
incident. She was more than ever in love with Mark and daz- 
zled by her good fortune. To have recaptured not only the man 
but the tender reverence that had marked the early days of their 
courtship, with the ardour of unsatisfied passion, revived her own 
youthfulness. It was indeed a “new romance,” and she yielded 
to the strong temptation. She could not tell him — not just yet. 
From day to day she postponed the confession. 

The engagement was kept a secret, another fact that Elizma 
deplored. But the moment that it was given out Sabine would 
have to leave Mark’s house, together with Anthony and Dillon, in 
deference to convention. To avoid a long parting they decided 
to withhold the announcement until a week before the wedding. 
It was to be from Elizma’s house in London, a quiet affair with 
no invitations, but bearing the social stamp of the Taverners’ 
well-known position. They would spend their honeymoon in town 
and collect sufficient furniture there to render a move to Lidding 
St. Mary practicable in the near future. Already Mark had 
commenced indoor renovatioas to efface Lady Gull’s rococo taste. 
The “mustard pot,” bare and serene, held a secret in its vaulted 
roof. For part of the ancient tapestry had been recovered. Once 
again, faded lords and ladies would ride in doublet and hose and 
veiled head-dress through dappled forests, lank hounds beside 
them, into a vista of worn canvas. 

Sabine spent happy hours wandering through the fine old rooms 
that re-echoed to the tap of Mark’s crutches, planning, dreaming. 

But workmen were scarce, involving patience. The Taverners 
too, were off to Polrennick, to prepare for a busy Christmas 
among the nuns and their new patients. This brought the date 
inexorably to the first week of the New Year. 

Mark had been for the last time to Exeter, his treatment fin- 
ished, and had come up before the Board with the result antici- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


279 


pated. Time might strengthen the damaged member, but his 
weight was a handicap and he was still doomed to crutches. The 
lapse in his memory was beyond human aid, but it troubled him 
far less now. He stood on the brink of a new life, no longer alone 
but ably supported, and the past seemed immaterial. Only one 
shadow dimmed his joy. He knew it for an absurd obession, 
but the phantom of Cruikshank haunted him, filling him with 
jealousy. His unconscious autocracy resented the thought of a 
predecessor. 

“Did I ever meet him?” he asked Sabine, one afternoon, in the 
sheltered lee of the old boat-house where she stood close beside 
his wheel chair. He had grudgingly adopted this means of pro- 
gression on learning that he could propel himself. 

“No.” She was looking seawards, watching the great rollers 
sweep towards them on the disused jetty, half-hypnotized by the 
ceaseless swell, flecked with foam, as the marching hosts flung 
out white banners in the sunshine. 

“Nor my aunt?” 

She shook her head. 

“It was quite a sudden affair. Away from here — in the Isle 
of Wight.” She spoke with a touch of impatience, her face 
sombre. “Why do you ask?” 

Mark laid a hand on hers, resting on the narrow wheel guard. 

“You’ll laugh at me! I know it’s mad, but I hate the very 
thought of him.” His voice was full of a deep resentment. “I 
hate the idea of your having loved him, and — well, of course, 
there’s Anthony!” 

“I never loved him so well as you.” 

His fingers tightened. He leaned towards her. 

“You mean that?” He studied her face for a moment, then 
laughed with a bitter note. “You’re only saying it out of kindness 
because I’m tied to this damned chair. 7 know you ! ” 

She swung round. 

“I’m not! I’ve always loved you best.” His jealousy had 
aroused in her a passionate impulse upsetting caution. “That 
is — ” She bit her lip, confused. 


2 SO 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Mark’s blue eyes went wide. He was a prey to rising excite- 
ment. 

“I don’t understand. Were we — no, that’s absurd! I was 
married then. You mean to say that you liked me first — really 
liked me — before you met him?” As she did not answer, he 
broke out, with a sick man’s irritation, “You’re hiding something. 
What is it, Sabine? It’s not fair when I can’t remember. For 
heaven’s sake be frank with me!” 

“There’s nothing more than I said. I’ve always been — fond 
of you. We were — great friends.” Her voice faltered. 

“Do you mean that we loved each other in the old days? 
That you knew it? Then why on earth did you marry Cruik- 
shank?” 

His anger swept her off her feet. 

“I didn’t.” 

“What?” 

He seized her wrist in a grip like a vice and she cried out. 

“You’re hurting me, Mark!” 

He paid no attention, though instinctively his fingers loosened. 

“Is that the truth?” 

She nodded her head. 

“But if you didn’t marry Cruikshank — Good God!” He 
stared at her, aghast. 

She read in his eyes the unspoken question that was torturing 
him and answered it. 

“Yes. Anthony’s — like that.” 

For now was the moment. She was stirred to the depths by 
this unforeseen climax and her courage rose. Unconsciously a 
faint smile curved her lips. He would know, at last, what she had 
suffered; in silence, too proud to claim her rights outside the 
kingdom of his love. 

But, before she could utter the words on her lips, Mark had 
flung aside her hand. With a fierce movement he turned the 
wheels of his chair, backing away from her. All his strength was 
in the action. Dazed, she watched him quickly receding. Now 
he had turned and was passing the boards where the blistered tar 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


281 


gave out the scent that is incense to those who love the waters, 
and the wind caught him, lifting his cap which careered wildly 
across the shingle. Bareheaded, his broad shoulders straining, he 
reached the end of the lane and the shelter of the long grey wall. 

“Mark!” Her voice followed him with a ring of amazement 
and despair. 

But he did not pause or turn his head. The smile on her face 
had been her undoing. 

She stood there in the sudden grip of mental and physical ex- 
haustion. Her limbs felt numb; the scene spun round her. She 
collapsed on to a coil of rope, fighting against the deadly faintness 
that threatened to overpower her senses. Through the grey veil 
before her eyes she was still painfully aware of that crablike 
progress up the lane until Mark vanished beneath the archway. 
He had gone — and with him the last pale gleam of the hope that 
a short hour ago had been rooted in his faith and love. 

Slowly sensation returned to her. With a crude nakedness the 
black outline of the boat-house against the red soil of the road 
took on distinct lines ; the beach was again broken by rocks, every 
pebble smooth and distinct. She pressed a hand to her hot fore- 
head trying to concentrate her thoughts. 

Mark had judged her — without mercy! She shivered. The 
look upon his face when he had desperately clutched the wheels, 
his whole soul bent on flight, had been worse than any actual 
blow. He had waited for no explanation, believing the utmost 
evil of her. 

She felt outraged by his conduct; her pride sought vainly a 
support. 

The “wrath of a self-righteous man” — her lips curled. She 
thought of Miss Vallance. She could hear again that fanatic 
voice: “Can any right come out of wrong?” And Mark, cool and 
arrogant: “We never discuss the war, Miss Fane.” 

No! She struck her knee with her hand, tightly clenched, in 
her rising anger. They never discussed anything. They judged, 
with their blind intolerance and traditional autocracy, heedless of 
the rights of others, sinners themselves yet merciless. 


282 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


The worst side of her nature was roused. 

“He shall pay for this.” She drew in her breath sharply be- 
tween her set lips. The soft tang of the sea air fitted her mood, 
and the wild sea horses, galloping up from the horizon, yielding 
to no will but their own, were fellow spirits, urging her to a 
breathless defiance of man-made laws. “When he knows , the 
tables will be turned. He must come to me for mercy then! He 
shall suffer too. But he sha’n’t know yet. That shall be his 
punishment.” 

She leaned forward, clasping her knees, her eyes fixed on the 
wide expanse. The word had touched a hidden spring of memory. 
Elizma had said that there were no punishments, only “cause 
and effect.” If so — her mind groped backwards — how had all 
this come to pass? She sought for a definite starting-point. 

With a scorn for cant as exemplified by Mark’s words com- 
pared with his actions, she dismissed the theory of its being the 
outcome of her fall. That had been physical, a blind pursuance 
of nature’s laws. But the deceit involved? The long trifling 
with the truth, lie upon lie, the tacit acceptance of respect where 
no respect was due, as the saddened “widow” left in power and 
looked on by the villagers as an example of all that was best in 
the ruling class; accepted, too, by friends like the Cathcarts and 
Taverners, deceiving them in the years of success — what of this? 
Her eyes narrowed. Here was the sin against the spirit. 

She probed still deeper. How had she stooped to this perilous 
subterfuge? Through pride — she did not spare herself in the 
pitiless analysis. Not the clean pride of her girlhood — which 
had been based on the knowledge that, save for the hasty incon- 
sequence of childish temper, confessed and forgiven, her life pre- 
sented a fair page that all might read — but the pride of power, 
the deadliest form of vanity. 

And pride had wrecked her castle of dreams. What remained 
out of the debacle? 

Love had gone under and faith with it. Even now, facing 
Mark, she could not hold up her head. There were fresh lies to 
recant, lies told since her engagement. She had yielded to the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


283 

old temptation, the smooth path of material joys, disguising the 
ugly facts. And he was not the old Mark of their first passionate 
month at Niton but a new, hardened, war- weary man with in- 
herited prejudices. He would be forced to forgiveness when he 
learnt his share of the secret romance, but would he forget? 
Could he trust her word in the long years that lay before them? 

Anthony too. When he grew to manhood, would he understand 
and forgive his parents? Youth was severe and narrow in judg- 
ment. Sabine remembered her own disdain for Fane’s weakness 
towards her sex. To stand condemned in the eyes of her son? 
She thrust the future away from her, dismayed, and returned to 
the present: Mark, and Mark’s attitude. 

She knew that the resurrection of all that was sweet in their 
intercourse was due to his idealised conception of her character; 
above all, to her love for the child. Now her motherhood was 
tarnished. She tried to rear up the old defences. It was Mark 
who had lowered her girlhood standard, who had taught her the 
physical side of love. But with the veil torn from her eyes she 
saw that the excuse was hollow. The stronger will had been hers 
in the past, overriding his objections. She had brought all her 
charm to bear on her lover, smoothing the way for him up to the 
“breathless moment.” Now she must pay — with her whole life- 
time. 

The tide was coming in fast. A wave bolder than the rest 
challenged the end of the broken pier, to be split in twain with a 
column of water that rose and scattered in wild spray. 

It drenched Sabine where she sat and she sprang to her feet, 
shivering. She felt chilled to the bone. Yet she could not re- 
turn to Mark’s house with her mind in a state of chaos. She 
must think things out alone, unaided. She followed the snake- 
like track of his wheels until she reached the sea-road, then turned 
to the right and quickened her pace as she neared the first white 
cottages. A mongrel with a long tail ran out from the last and 
barked at her, to be called back by its owner, an aged dame with 
scanty hair, snow-white, drawn into a black net. 

Sabine knew the woman well ; a grandmother, yet still bound to 


284 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


the drudgery of daily toil, poor but proud in her own fashion, 
under no debt to her neighbours. She stood within the narrow 
doorway, her bleached old face uplifted, expectant. From the 
puckered mouth, long innocent of teeth, came a respectful greet- 
ing and simultaneously she “dipped,” the rheumatic knees bent 
in a curtsy. 

It seemed the last mockery in Sabine’s present mood; the 
tribute rendered unto a Caesar who had wilfully bartered away 
his crown. 

With a murmured response, she hurried on. 

Across the gulf of years she could see herself on this very 
road driving, erect, beside Steve, as he whipped up the grey pony 
and the trunk jolted in the rear, receiving the same mark of 
respect that was due to a guest of the Vallances. 

A lump rose in her throat. That girl — how far away she 
seemed! With her eager eyes and untouched heart; above all, 
her clean young soul. 

If this were not “punishment”? She stumbled, the hot tears 
blinding her and caught herself up breathlessly, her face set 
towards Lidding Moor. 


Elizma was practising in the long, bare room on the top floor 
that was sacred to her music. Under the fine Erard piano, which 
had been her husband’s wedding present, a wire-haired terrier 
fitfully dozed, one eye wide open. At moments when the violin 
wailed on a high note he would raise his head uneasily and growl 
deep down in his throat. 

Harmonics were his pet aversion. He divined, not without 
logic, that they were the pet ghosts of melody, and the hair would 
rise along his spine. Music was quite nerve-racking enough with- 
out occult disturbances! 

The door opened and Taverner entered hastily, a frown on his 
face. 

“Elizma, you promised !” 

She broke off with a quick glance at the clock. 

“I know. But it’s only half past three.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


285 

“It’s nearly five.” His voice was severe. He crossed the room 
impatiently. “This thing’s stopped — you might have guessed it.” 

A little smile curved her lips. 

“Did you wind it up on Sunday?” As he hesitated, she burst 
out laughing. “And then you go blaming me!” 

His face relaxed. Obediently she was tucking “Pietro” away 
in his case. 

“I wonder Muff didn’t warn you.” He stooped to pat the 
little dog who, fully aware that his trial was over, had crept out 
from his hiding-place. 

“He did, twice. He hates Bach.” 

“Barks back?” Taverner had the grace to look ashamed of 
the joke. “Now then, you’ll lie down. Pluffles is bringing tea 
up here.” He tucked a cushion under her head, then bent and 
kissed her rather gravely. “Honestly, I don’t want you to overdo 
it just now. It’s a strain practising all that time — waving your 
arms about.” 

“Just as if I were a windmill!” She made a mutinous face at 
her husband. “I practised every day for hours before Roger-Lee 
was born.” 

“And paid for it,” said Taverner dryly. 

She nodded. 

“Well, I’ll give in. Only, you must wind the clocks!” 

“I’ll bring up ‘Old Eternity.’ Then there can be no collusion.” 
He referred to a favourite time-piece that ticked on for a whole 
year without human intervention. Lady Maud Welkinshaw had 
sent it to Taverner one Christmas with the excuse that its “ana- 
tomical effect” fitted it for a surgeon’s house. Its glass case 
shamelessly exposed all its inner works. 

“Then don’t blame me,” said Elizma demurely, “if the baby 
has wheels instead of a tummy.” 

Taverner checked the retort on his lips, grinning, for Pluffles 
was at the door. He came in with the tea-tray, breathing hard 
from the steep stairs. Pluffles was putting on weight. 

“For h’you, madam.” He presented a letter that had topped 
the erection on its carefully balanced salver. 


286 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“Thanks.” Elizma tore it open. She skimmed the first page 
rapidly and gave a startled ejaculation. 

Taverner looked up from a slice of cake which he was breaking 
into pieces for a game with Muff, already erect on his hind 
quarters. 

“Anything wrong?” 

She nodded, frowning, and waited for Pluffles to depart. 

That devoted servitor took the hint patiently with a furtive 
tweak to the tea-cloth which was crooked and offended his eye. 
The baize door closed behind him. 

“It’s from Sabine. She’s in dreadful trouble,” Elizma ex- 
plained rapidly. “She has told him, but only a part. That’s the 
worst of it! A shocking muddle. And now he’s gone.” 

“Gone where?” 

“She doesn’t know. He Had left the house when she got back 
from a long walk. Just packed a suit-case and ordered the dog- 
cart for the station. No one knows his address. He said he’d 
been called away on business, and since then she hasn’t heard. 
You’d better read it for yourself. Poor girl, she’s utterly broken.” 

Taverner took the double pages, closely covered by hurried 
writing, and settled down to his task. He looked up, after a 
minute. 

“Don’t you worry — have your tea. Why should they all come 
bothering you?” There was resentment in his voice. “It’s her 
own fault from start to finish. She should have been honest with 
the man.” 

“I know.” Elizma sounded hopeless. She began to fill the 
cups before her. 

Taverner absently reached out a hand and took a gulp of the 
hot tea. 

“A pair of fools!” He folded the letter and handed it back, 
then smiled at his wife. “Cheer up! It’s bound to come right in 
the end. My sympathy is all with Vallance. It must have been 
a nasty knock. He’s been brought up in a narrow circle, tied to 
his aunt’s apron-strings — they’re always the hardest class to deal 
with — and naturally he’s dumbfounded. He still believes there 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


287 


has been a Cruikshank and that Anthony is the result of a passing 
fancy on Sabine’s part. He’s in poor health, which makes it 
worse. His absence needn’t worry you. He has gone away to 
think things over.” 

“He might have left his address.” Elizma took the feminine 
point of view. 

“Then Sabine would have followed him, or written. He realized 
that. My dear” — he laid a hand on her knee — “you can’t make 
men on a woman’s pattern. There are times when they must be 
alone. I can understand how Vallance felt. He’s faced with a 
drastic decision.” 

“But he needn't be. That’s what annoys me! I wish I could 
go down and help — if only by keeping Sabine safe from a fresh 
mad impulse.” Elizma gave a sigh of impatience. 

“So you can,” said Taverner gently. “I was going to tell you, 
after tea, that I’ve had a letter from Polrennick which will alter 
all our plans for Christmas. They’ve influenza in the house and 
it’s spreading — unluckily. It will have to run its course, but 
I’m not going to let you and the child stay there — not at present. 
No good going into infection deliberately if it can be avoided. I 
was wondering if we could get the Ferry House again for a 
month? I could stay a few days at Liddingcombe and then run 
over to Polrennick. How would you like the idea?” 

“Oh, Orde!” Her face lit up. “It’s the very thing, providen- 
tial!” She paused. “Are they really bad at Polrennick? I don’t 
like deserting them.” 

“They’ve some serious cases, with pneumonia, but no deaths, 
so far. It wouldn’t do for Roger-Lee. You’d be wiser to stay at 
Liddingcombe. Besides they’ve enough work to do, without visi- 
tors. It doesn’t matter about me, but they’ll make preparations 
for you, and all the village will troop up and help to spread the 
epidemic.” 

His tact produced the desired result. He had learnt his lesson 
with Elizma. Appeal to her reason and she was won. 

“No. You’re right. I’m not really wanted.” She frowned at 
her husband. “Must you go?” 


288 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“It doesn’t make any difference. I’m in the thick of it in 
London. I’m not afraid — that’s the best protection.” He 
changed the subject. “I’ll write to-night and use all my powers 
of persuasion to secure the Ferry House. It’s a dear little place. 
We’ll take old Pluffles. He deserves a holiday. I asked him the 
other day if he wasn’t getting tired of London — ” 

Elizma interrupted: 

“And he replied ‘Not ’h’at h’all’l Didn’t he now?” 

Taverner laughed. “Probably. I can’t remember.” 

The door opened on the words. 

“H’if you please, sir, a Mr. h’lnman would like to see you. He 
hasn’t an h’appointment, sir.” Pluffles, aspirating wildly, stood, 
a stout figure, on the threshold. 

“I’ll come. Ask him to wait a minute.” Taverner held out his 
cup to Elizma for a fresh supply. “And, look here, Pluffles, I’m 
arranging to go down into Devonshire with Mrs. Taverner for 
Christmas. I think I shall need you there.” 

“Very good, sir.” Pluffles’ face was a mask of studied in- 
difference. 

“You’d rather stay in London, perhaps?” 

“No, sir. Not h’at h’all.” 

Taverner choked over his tea. He dared not look at Elizma. 
His face was red when he raised it. 

“Ever done any fishing, Pluffles?” 

“H’yes, sir.” A faint smile came and went in a flash on the 
impassive countenance. 

“And what about bathing?” 

Pluffles looked mournful. 

“No sir. I’m not partial to it.” He unbent. “It doesn’t h’agree 
with me, sir. Not in cold weather — the h’after h’effects.” 

“I see.” Taverner’s mouth was twitching. “Perhaps you’re 
wise.” 

Pluffles retired. 

Elizma had caught up Muff, her face buried in his coat. As 
the baize door closed she gave a sob of relief, the signal for her 
pent-up mirth. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


289 


“I’d like to see old Pluffles fishing.” Taverner gave her a 
wicked glance. “On a rough day with a heavy swell. It would 
be a test for his dignity.” 

He got up regretfully and glanced at his watch. 

“You’ll stay there until it’s nearly time for dinner? Just to 
please me.” 

She nodded, smiling. 

“If I may write one line to Sabine?” 

“Well — I’ll allow that.” He paused in the doorway. “Give 
her my love and tell her to cheer up, and remember — this is 
important — that she’s dealing with a sick man.” 

“You mean a crippled one?” said Elizma. 

“No. What I said. I’ll tell you later. I’ve my own idea on 
the subject.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


NTHONY stood at his nursery window watching occasional 



flakes of snow drift down on to the wet lawn and vanish, 


leaving no trace behind. Where did they go? He pon- 
dered on this for a space and gave up the weighty problem. 
Breathing heavily on the panes, he returned to his latest diversion 
of making patterns with his nose. He didn’t credit Dillon’s tale 
that the improper use of this member would turn it into india- 
rubber if the wind changed suddenly. 

Anyhow, supposing it did? Anthony thought it would be fun. 
To pull it out and let it go with a snap like the twisty rings that 
Big Man gave him off his papers. 

Anthony yawned. Of all long days, this day was the longest. 
His walk had been cut short by a driving hail-storm. Why 
didn’t Big Man come home and tell him stories in the firelight? 
Dillon had tried to fill the gap in his current literature with 
legends of the “little people,” but fairies weren’t a patch on 
pirates! Anthony fretted against the prevailing feminine atmos- 
phere. Mother was out. She always seemed to be out now, 
round at the Ferry House. He was secretly jealous of Roger-Lee, 
who according to Dillon had better manners than a “certain little 
gintleman”! Tea had made a slight diversion. They had 
roasted an apple on a string that turned in front of the nursery 
fire. But it hadn’t tasted very good, and the brown sugar had 
been missing. It was “shorter” than ever since the Peace, Dillon, 
grumbling, had explained. Anthony privately decided that Peace 
was a huge mistake. He had lost his chance of being a soldier 
and every one seemed dissatisfied. There was Johnson always 
“cwoss” because somebody kept her Fred somewhere where he 


290 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


291 


wasn’t wanted. No boys marched down the lane to drill in front 
of the old boat-house; a blight had descended on Liddingcombe. 
The sooner they had another war the better, was Anthony’s con- 
clusion. Even the flags had lost their glamour and the snow had 
been disappointing. It was never like the Christmas cards. 

Dillon was busy ironing. Anthony drifted across to her. He 
knew it was no good asking again when Big Man was coming 
home. He stood on one leg balancing himself against the edge of 
the table, watching the steam rise up from the damp handker- 
chiefs. He liked the little hiss of the iron and the thrill when 
Dillon first tested its heat close to her wrinkled cheek. A hair- 
breadth nearer and she would be burnt! He didn’t exactly wish 
for it, but the danger was exciting. 

Dillon got up for a fresh iron and placed it upright to cool on 
its stand; Anthony sidled around the table, watching the nurse 
from under his lashes, and furtively spat on the heated surface. 
What a hiss! The next moment Dillon bore down on him, voluble 
and indignant. The awful threat of approaching bedtime sobered 
the culprit who pleaded for mercy. Then a familiar step sounded 
on the passage outside and Sabine came in. Anthony ran to her. 

“Muvver, muvver!” 

She caught him up, her tired face alight with love. 

“Well, have you been a good boy?” 

That tedious question! Anthony wriggled. Would Dilly “tell” 
about the iron? He was thankful when his mother turned to the 
old nurse, ignoring an answer, to impart her information. The 
Taverners were coming in for some music after supper. 

Dillon approved. Since Mark’s departure the piano had re- 
mained closed. Sabine avoided the rooms below and would sit, a 
book unread on her knee, brooding before her own fire after the 
day’s work was over. 

“You’ll be wearin’ your velvet tea-gown, then?” Dillon 
studied her mistress’ face, “I’ll put it out, m’m. You’ll find it 
chilly with no fire for the past week. Did you tell that Mary to 
light it?” 

“No, but I will.” Her voice was listless. What did anything 


292 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


matter now? There were heavy shadows under her eyes, testify- 
ing to sleepless nights. “Old Humporley’s dead,” she said 
abruptly. Dillon nodded and crossed herself with a murmured 
prayer for his soul. “He was asking for Mark all the morning, 
but what could I do?” She flung out her hands. “And I met 
Sir James in the village. It gets more difficult every day. I’ve 
given out that he’s in London. If only I had his address!” 

“He’ll be back soon,” said Dillon gravely. 

“Why do you think so?” asked Sabine. She had forgotten 
Anthony who was listening, wide-eyed. 

“It was in me tay-cup to-night, m’m. A tall gintleman under 
the Crown. With a bird too, for hasting news, and tears. What 
else but tears of joy?” She folded the last handkerchief, pressed 
it, and laid it on the pile. “It’s Himself, for sure, and the end 
of trouble.” Her crooning old voice became triumphant. “Jist 
look at the opening in the fire — all clear an’ bright, Miss Sabine, 
dear. That should tell you without spache.” She watched the 
wave of superstition catch her mistress and smiled, contented. 
“It’s time for Master Anthony to have his bath,” she added 
briskly. “I must be gitting the warm water.” 

The little boy began to protest. He clung to his mother’s 
skirt, begging for another minute. Just one? For a ride on 
Dobbin? 

Indulgently she lifted him up on to the horse that had been 
Mark’s joy. Anthony, grasping its scanty mane, and kicking the 
dappled sides, took his evening exercise. As she rocked the steed, 
one arm about him, he peered up into Sabine’s face. 

“Muwer?” 

“Well?” 

“Dilly says Big Man will turn home soon. What’s soon?” 

Her heart contracted. 

“I don’t know, darling. I wish I did.” 

“Before Kissmas?” 

Sabine nodded. Anthony sighed with satisfaction. 

“Den I’ll be a dood boy.” He allowed himself to be lifted 
down. “Woger-Lee’s dot no gee-gee.” His voice was muffled as 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


293 


Dillon drew his tunic over his dark head. “But he’s dot a fort 
with heaps of soldiers and Big Man’s pwomised to div’ me some — 
for Kissmas — an’ a weal cannon, an’ tents with a little flag on 
the top. Den we’ll play at bluggy battles!” 

“Anthony!” Sabine glanced at Dillon, pouring water into the 
bath. “Wherever did he learn that word?” She tried in vain to 
look severe. 

Anthony answered for himself. 

“Steve says it. ‘Dis bluggy war’!” He skipped with excite- 
ment and kicked off his shoes. Erect in his socks, sturdy, tri- 
umphant, he shouted his new, forbidden expression. 

“You leave him to me, m’m,” said Dillon grimly. 

She advanced, but Anthony held his ground. The pluck of the 
small, defiant figure roused in his mother a sudden pride. 

“Don't scold him!” She whispered the words into the old 
nurse’s ear. 

“Dade and you’ll spoil him, Miss Sabine, dear. He knows 
better — I’ve told him afore. An’ I’ve given Steve a piece of me 
mind.” 

Anthony looked from one to the other slyly. Then he giggled. 

“Woger-Lee daren't say ‘bluggy’!” 

Sabine, wisely, beat a retreat. 


By ten o’clock it was snowing hard, the flakes that had puzzled 
Anthony now forming a blanket on the ground. It muffled the 
sound of approaching wheels, but Dillon, peering out at the night 
bathed in a frosty moonlight, saw the gate in the wall swing back 
and caught her breath in sudden excitement. 

“Himself!” The word slipped from her lips; her worn hands 
were clasped together. 

She watched Mark’s slow progress to the porch, the cabman in 
his wake, carrying his rug and suit-case; then, with a glance at 
Anthony sleeping in the room beyond, she tiptoed to the head of 
the stairs.' 

From below came a wave of music: Sabine’s rich and haunting 
voice in a duet with the violin, for Elizma was playing an obbli- 


294 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


gato. It rose and fell and, in the hush, Dillon could catch a sound 
of footsteps and the twitter of Johnson’s explanations. 

Dillon’s mind moved swiftly, divided between fear and hope. 
It was enough to annoy a saint that he should come this very 
night when her darling had company! It was not. The Tav- 
erners’ genial presence might break the awkwardness of the 
meeting and give Sabine a moment’s grace. That Johnson now, 
“blathering” there! Why couldn’t she leave the man alone? 
With the mistress waiting, all unconscious of the happiness at 
hand. Her prophecy was bearing fruit; the “tay-leaves” had not 
lied. 

Dillon retreated quickly. Johnson was coming up the stairs 
and, below, the drawing-room door had opened. 

Opened to a crescendo passage where violin and voice were 
blent, covering every minor sound. Only Taverner, by the fireside, 
was aware of the tall figure, propped on his crutches in the door- 
way, grave-eyed, listening, a deep furrow between his brows. He 
was on the point of rising when Mark, with a sign, checked him. 
It was evident that his host was waiting for the music to come to 
an end. 

Taverner, interested, aware of a dramatic moment, silently 
studied Mark, noting his fine proportions, with a mixture of 
admiration and pity. Here was no cripple resigned to his fate; 
no weakling to be ruled by a woman. Despite his awkward atti- 
tude, the shoulders heightened by his crutches, he yet preserved 
his dignity. His mouth was set in a hard line; his blue eyes were 
cold and searching. They met Taverner’s steadily and quickened, 
obeying some hidden thought. A silent current of sympathy 
passed like a flash between the pair, the appeal and response of a 
common sex, which is more marked in the masculine one. Neither 
of them desired a scene. But Mark nourished a deep resentment. 
This was the way that the woman he loved could amuse herself 
in his absence, knowing that she had driven him forth to his lonely 
Gethsemane. She could live in the present, forgetting the past — 
a “light woman”! His lips tightened. 

The Taverners he could not blame, though their presence at 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


295 


Liddingcombe surprised him. They had a claim on his courtesy, 
through their kindly offer concerning the wedding. He wondered 
how much they knew? In any case he would show them who was 
rightful master here. They were his guests, not Sabine’s. 

As the music ceased he came forward and was met half-way by 
Taverner. He caught a startled gasp from Sabine and a murmur 
between the women. Then Elizma joined her husband, the violin 
tucked under her arm. 

Taverner introduced her: 

“This is my wife. I’m afraid we’ve been trespassing during 
your absence. You must forgive us.” 

“Not at all. I’m delighted to meet you.” Mark shook hands 
with the graceful woman and, divining her embarrassment, added 
in a warmer voice, “How well you play! Is this ‘Pietro’?” 

“Yes.” She gathered her wits together. “So you’ve heard of 
him?” 

“Naturally.” He smiled down into her face, and was conscious, 
beneath her light manner, of a hint of aggression. 

“It’s so delightful,” she said smoothly, “to have Sabine to ac- 
company me — to say nothing of her singing!” She glanced 
back over her shoulder at the silent figure by the piano, delib- 
erately including her. 

Mark, for the first time, looked across the narrow space. 

“Oh — how are you?” Still on his crutches, he made no move- 
ment in her direction. His eyes, cool and indifferent, passed over 
her pale face. 

She ignored the polite question. 

“How did you come? We didn’t hear you.” Her voice shook. 
With an effort, she steadied herself and joined the group. 

“I wired for a cab at the junction.” He turned to Elizma, 
“Won’t you sit down?” and set the example himself, glad to be 
relieved of his crutches. “It’s cold to-night. I think we’re in for 
an unusually heavy fall. There was snow all along the line to 
Exeter, then it seemed to have thawed, but it caught me up on the 
moor. When did you come down from town?” 

“Three days ago. We were going for Christmas to Cornwall” — 


296 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Elizma, facing him on the sofa beside Sabine, bravely upheld the 
conversation — “but our plans were changed at the last moment 
by an outbreak of influenza. Fortunately we managed to get the 
Ferry House for a week or two. We had it, you know, in the 
summer.” 

“So I heard.” 

There followed a pause. Taverner frowned at his wife but she 
disregarded his mute hint. Although she was longing to depart, 
her thoughts were centred round Sabine. She wanted to give the 
latter time to prepare herself for the coming ordeal. Mark’s atti- 
tude troubled her. He was very much the Lord of the Manor 
to-night, and he looked merciless. 

He broke the silence that weighed on the group: 

“You mustn’t let me disturb your music. I’m so fond of the 
violin. Won’t you play something more?” 

He had expected a refusal, but Elizma rose without hesitation. 

“With pleasure. What do you like?” She had her reward in 
the instant relief visible on Sabine’s face as she moved across to 
the piano. “Do you care for a Grieg Sonata — or is he too 
serious?” 

“No. He suits a snowy night.” 

She glanced up with the swift smile that made her beautiful for 
a moment; the smile that had won Taverner’s heart. It startled 
Mark. He had not admired her, aware of her slightly eccentric 
dress and the cropped hair which he disliked, but now he realized 
her charm. She answered him in her husky voice: 

“That’s true. Even in moments of passion his music comes 
over the frozen fiords.” Tucking the violin under her chin, she 
tuned it softly, then glanced at Sabine. “Ready?” 

Her friend’s mournful eyes were the last touch needed to string 
her up to the full power of her art. Her whole soul went into the 
notes. 

Mark leaned back in his arm-chair, his face a polite mask. But 
gradually as the fluid magic fired his blood he bent forward and 
the lines round his mouth deepened. In his eyes grew a hunger 
of love and despair. Taverner averted his own. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


297 


“Poor devil!” he said to himself. “He’s hard hit. And he’s up 
against centuries of prejudice. Crippled, too, in body and mind.” 
His thoughts turned off to the medical side of the case and his 
eyes stole back again to the impassive figure; the steady hands on 
the arms of the chair, the perfect physical control. “I don’t be- 
lieve he’s ever had shell shock. It’s a convenient argument to 
explain the lapse of memory. If one could repair that, what a 
blessing it would be, both for him and for Sabine — a clean cut 
to all this folly. I’ve a great mind — ” He left the thought un- 
finished but drew his chair a shade nearer to the fender. As the 
last arpeggio rippled softly he stretched out his foot as though to 
warm it at the fire. The action dislodged the poker that fell from 
the high support with a sharp and deafening clatter. 

Elizma, dreaming over her fiddle, started, annoyed. From 
Sabine came a quick ‘Oh!’, for her nerves were strained. Mark 
was the only one unmoved. 

“I’m sorry,” said Taverner. 

“You Goth!” Elizma mustered a smile. Orde was so rarely 
clumsy. “You ruined my last note!” 

“I know.” He tried to look guilty, but inwardly he was tri- 
umphant. He had settled one point in his mind. 

Mark, with an effort, roused himself. 

“The remedy seems obvious. Won’t you give us a further 
treat?” 

“It’s time we were getting home.” She laid her violin in its 
case. “We have a snowy walk before us.” 

“Well, it’s been a great pleasure,” said Mark. “I hope you’ll 
both dine with me one night before long?” He reached for his 
crutches and stood up. “You must have something before you 
go — a glass of wine to keep you warm? In any case your hus- 
band will.” 

Elizma declined, but Taverner, to his wife’s surprise, accepted 
the hospitality. 

“It’s a temptation — after hours!” He followed his host from 
the room. 

As the door closed, Sabine turned to her friend. 


298 THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 

“You see how he looks? I dread it, Elizma.” 

“Why?” The other smiled tenderly. “If only you had watched 
his face when I was playing — he’s broken-hearted. You can put 
it right with one word. Tell him simply — without delay. He’s 
devoted to you. Don’t you love him?” 

“Yes. But I feel so tired. I’m not in the right mood to-night. 
If only — ” She bit her lip. 

“Only we hadn’t been here? I agree. Still — ” 

Sabine, wide-eyed, checked her. 

“My dear! I was thankful that you were. It’s not that. 
It’s just that my courage is at its lowest ebb.” 

“Then it’s on the turn of the tide,” said Elizma. “If you ask 
me what I think, you’re exaggerating the situation.” Her arm 
went round Sabine’s shoulder as she sat, bowed, before the piano. 
“He’s come back. Doesn’t that prove that he’s giving you an- 
other chance? Take it and thank God. You can put him out of 
his misery.” 

Steps sounded in the hall and a fragment of conversation, with 
Taverner’s deep and resonant voice: 

“I’ve known cases of it before. It comes quite suddenly, you 
say, an overpowering smell of apples?” 

“Yes.” Mark laughed shortly. “I’m thinking of offering it to 
the Psychical Research people as a genuine form of haunting and 
ask if they can lay the ghost. I suppose it’s really a nervous 
symptom, some weird after-effect of shell shock.” 

“Possibly.” 

Elizma smiled. She knew that the word in her husband’s 
mouth generally covered supreme doubt of another man’s diag- 
nosis. She tightened her hold on Sabine’s arm, as they stood, side 
by side. 

“Come and see us off. Yes, you must . My coat’s outside, 
isn’t it? But first, kiss me?” She lifted her face. Sabine 
stooped gratefully. “There! Now, are you going to be good, 
or behave like a silly schoolgirl?” Her golden eyes were full 
of light. 

She watched Sabine’s head go up with the old instinctive hint 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


299 

of pride and rejoiced in her heart. Her task was done, save for a 
lingering feminine touch. 

“You’re looking what Dilly calls ‘a picture’ — if that’s any 
consolation.” 

Sabine smiled. 

“Not much.” 

“It all helps,” said Elizma wisely. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


O N the Taverners' departure Sabine and Mark instinctively 
turned back into the drawing-room. They could hear 
Johnson bolting the door, then the click of the glasses as 
she cleared away in the dining-room. For the silence of the old 
house was magnified by the snow without. 

Mark looked inexpressibly weary. He had been through a 
painful time in London, not only a prey to mental disturbance 
but harassed by physical discomfort. Arriving after his hurried 
flight at an early hour, he had shared the experience of many 
travellers at that period. There was no room vacant at his club 
and he drove in despair from hotel to hotel seeking accommoda- 
tion. At last he had been deposited by his taxi-driver at a well- 
known restaurant during the luncheon hour, that worthy re- 
fusing to take him further. The garish scene had seemed to 
Mark like some evil dream of luxury, with its noisy overdressed 
women, its gay youth in khaki that, in turn, shouldered him aside 
without the slightest apology, and its independent and churlish 
officials. 

His soul craved for solitude. Yet there he sat, with the din 
of the band piercing his throbbing head, in a London changed 
and utterly hostile, intoxicated by sudden “Peace,” with no 
thought beyond pleasure. 

In the streets it was the same. Never before had he felt his 
infirmity so acutely. He realized to the full how little a crippled 
man in mufti could expect in the shape of kindliness. Jostled by 
the never-ending stream of people making their way to theatre 
and music-hall, he found at last a bare bedroom in a shabby hotel 
off the Strand. 

He had lived in it for a fortnight; without a fire, unpleasantly 


300 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


30i 


conscious of its damp airlessness, subsisting on poor food at 
famine prices, roughly served, yet too spent to adventure further. 
Here, at least, he was safely hidden, master of his own thoughts. 

He would swing himself down on his crutches painfully to the 
Embankment and, leaning on the parapet, watch the river carry 
past its flotsam of humanity through the grey murk of the winter 
days. But the spectacle was less drab than his personal specu- 
lations. It held the merit of law and order and it moved to an 
appointed purpose. In the shipwreck of his own life Mark could 
discern no guiding star. The port of the future was closed to 
him. Body and soul revolted against companionship with a 
woman, once dearly loved and respected, who could, so cruelly, 
deceive him. Gradually the deceit grew to hold the paramount 
importance, surpassing his first horror over Sabine’s lapse of 
virtue. How could he ever trust her again? All his old morbid 
doubt regarding his own mental condition returned with redoubled 
force. To be at the mercy of a woman who could take advantage 
of his weakness? At times it seemed that not only the past but 
the present was becoming blurred. There were intervals in which 
he sank into a state of apathy that nearly approached uncon- 
sciousness. Then, with a start, he would awake and wrestle once 
more with the problem. 

Inch by inch he went over the ground, recalling her silences 
and evasions. He had put them down jealously to her feeling for 
the dead soldier, and natural reluctance to stir from their grave 
sad and happy memories. She had never spoken directly of 
Cruikshank. Now this seemed to the nerve-strained man a fresh 
evidence of her guilt. 

If only he did not love her! For love persisted, against his 
will, with a new and degraded form of passion. It offended his 
cleaner instincts, but in the long hours of the night he would feel 
the primitive desire forcibly to possess this woman who had fore- 
sworn her claim to his scrupulous self-control. Then, with the 
wan light of dawn, as he tossed on his narrow bed, the fever would 
pass with the longing to humble her to his bodily needs. He 
would draw up the fog-stained blind and look across the vista of 


302 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


roofs, away from the grime to where a streak of primrose stole 
across the sky; and as if his own mental clouds lifted in sympathy 
he would find himself searching for some excuse, mad and im- 
probable, to build up his broken idol. 

He indulged in wild conjectures. Was it possible that Cruik- 
shank had taken a sudden base advantage of an unprotected 
woman? Such things had been known in the war. For his heart 
warred with his reason; he was haunted by Sabine’s charm, her 
serene yet youthful dignity and her motherly care of the child. 
There must be some saving clause, overlooked in the moment of 
shock. She would explain. She could explain. He nerved him- 
self to return. 

As the train carried him away from the pall of smoke, London’s 
breath, and he saw again the open fields, the clean river and 
widening sky, he felt like an escaped prisoner. When they 
reached the edge of the Wiltshire downs, where the snow lay in 
pristine patches, the fresh sweet air blew into his face and re- 
vived his courage. He could picture Sabine vividly in the haven 
of his boyhood, waiting and fearing, in loneliness, broken-hearted 
as himself. 

The journey seemed endless. He had to wait at Exeter for the 
slower train to the junction and he forced himself to take some 
food. He watched disdainfully the noisy by-play between some 
men and a coquettish, elderly barmaid. Everywhere reigned the 
same spirit, he decided morosely; a feverish pursuit of pleasure, 
wanton in its abandonment, the war forgotten and with it the 
host of dead beneath their rotting crosses. 

The snow had changed to driving sleet ; the damp cold bit into 
his bones as he entered an unheated carriage. But afar he saw 
the low grey house with the gentle and aloof air it had caught 
from the Vallances, its wide hearths and burning logs. By one of 
these sat a lonely figure, with her saddened beauty, listening for a 
step out of the dark, the slow tap of his crutches. 

The disillusion 'had been complete. 

Sabine could amuse herself, find consolation with her friends. 
It was a blow to his vanity. In his tired mood it emphasized the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


303 


gulf between their characters. Now, as he sat stiffly on the cane 
sofa that had once supported the paralysed woman, facing Sabine 
across the hearth, some portion of the unbending spirit of Miss 
Vallance took possession of him. 

Through the silence came the sound of Johnson; not in the best 
of tempers, retiring with the last tray; then the distant slam of a 
door. As if he had waited for this signal, Mark looked up and 
spoke abruptly. 

“You didn’t expect me to-night?” 

“No. Why should I? You never wrote.” Sabine’s voice was 
clear and calm. It had only needed the sharp tonic of Elizma’s 
counsel to cause the reaction to set in from her stunned despair. 
A sense of danger stirred her blood, bringing the colour to her 
cheeks. She cleared the first obstacle. “If I had known, I should 
naturally have prevented the Taverners from coming.” 

Mark stared into the fire. 

“You understood why I went away?” 

“No.” It was said with dignity. 

The unexpected response brought his eyes to her face in quick 
resentment. They were vividly blue with a flame of anger. 

“I gave you credit for understanding.” He mastered his voice 
with an effort. “I had to be alone for a time to think over — all 
you told me.” 

“There was no need.” She smiled gravely. “Had you waited 
and given me a chance of explaining we should both have been 
spared much suffering, Mark. You only heard a part of the 
truth.” 

He shrugged his shoulders wearily. 

“I might have guessed it! It seems to me that women fail to 
understand a man’s meaning of the word.” His face became 
cynical. “I’ve been married and I ought to know. But I placed 
you on a different footing.” He saw her wince and it stirred in 
him the primitive cruelty that lies at the root of all human pas- 
sion. “I believed in you — till you told me your story.” 

She leaned forward, her own mood changing, subtly affected by 
his, and gave him back scorn for scorn. 


304 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


“So, without allowing me a chance of defending myself, you 
went and judged me. Do you call that fair?” 

He hesitated. 

“Was there any need of an explanation? The facts in them- 
selves seemed sufficient.” He was conscious, even as he spoke, 
that the answer was grotesque. He had returned for this very 
chance. 

“Perhaps, for a magistrate, but not for a man who loved me.” 
She was watching him sombrely, wondering, with a touch of panic, 
if love were dead ; if this hard-mouthed man would be moved by 
anything but the wound to his self-esteem when he learnt the full 
romance. She saw a sudden slight contraction of the muscles con- 
trolling his lips and went on impulsively, “You placed me on the 
same footing as the woman you turned out of the village.” 

The protest failed. It reminded Mark of Sabine’s sympathy for 
the victim. 

“Well?” He looked her straight in the face. 

She sprang to her feet at the insult. They had reached the 
climax without preparation. She turned his weapon on himself. 

“Supposing that you had been the man — the father of her 
child — what then?” 

Mark’s nostrils curled. 

“Is it likely?” 

“No.” She drew a deep breath. “But you were — the father 
of mine.” 

Head flung back, superbly defiant, she stood before him, her 
boats burnt. Time seemed to pause in its stride, the silence a 
weight unbearable. Now, now — she clenched her hands. 

But instead of all she had expected she saw horror and amaze- 
ment pass over Mark’s features, to be replaced by a growing doubt. 

“You forget Cruikshank — apparently.” 

“He never existed!” Her voice rang. “Not even in name. I 
invented it and my marriage to screen myself — and you!” 

His hand went up and pressed his forehead. He looked physi- 
cally sick. 

“Wait! You say that it was a lie — all that part about Cruik- 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


305 


shank, though you made me believe it for weeks on end. Why 
should this be the truth ?” His self-control suddenly snapped. 
“Good God, it’s impossible! That I, married at the time, would 
consent to such trickery. To bolster up a guilty intrigue with 
you under my aunt’s roof. And carry it on for four years? No! 
I think you must be mad.” 

“I’m sane. It’s you — who have forgotten !” 

The passionate cry was wrung from her. Even Mark in his 
rebellion was caught by its compelling note. His face worked, 
watching hers. 

“Sabine, for God’s sake, let’s have the truth and nothing else! 
You say I loved you, years ago, when my aunt was alive. Did 
she guess?” 

“No.” She choked over the word. 

“And that I persuaded you — took advantage of your posi- 
tion — ” He stammered and tried again. “That Anthony — 
How could it have happened?” 

“Because I couldn’t bear to lose you and our single chance of 
happiness. You were going to the war, to risk your life and it 
seemed — it seemed — ” In vain she sought for an explanation 
that should be true and yet exculpate herself. “You agreed. We 
were desperately in love.” 

“Agreed?” He had found the weak spot in her armour. 
“Agreed to what?” 

“To go away for a month together.” Her hope, that had risen 
prematurely with the gentler inflexion in his voice, sank again. 
“So, we went.” 

“Where?” Through narrowed lids he watched her. Here was 
a point that could be proved. 

But the question, that seemed a side issue, unsettled her 
thoughts. The name of the place, so dear and familiar, suddenly 
vanished as names will from the memory under nervous strain. 
Baffled, she sought to recall it, a frightened smile unconsciously 
playing round her parched lips. 

“It was — How absurd! In the Isle of Wight.” 

“Where?” Inexorably he held her to the statement. 


3°6 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


She threw up her hands with a desperate gesture. 

“It's slipped from my mind. What does it matter?” 

In silence he waited. He told himself that he had caught her 
out at last. His condemnation was complete. An adventuress — 
he writhed at the thought — who had sought to saddle the child 
upon him through the medium of the “lost years.” 

“We’ll leave it at the Isle of Wight.” He spoke dryly and 
bitterly. “Will you tell me why you’ve kept all this a profound 
secret from first to last throughout our engagement?” 

She was nervously twisting the platinum chain between her 
fingers, her thoughts in a whirl. She answered him in a whisper: 

“I wanted — to start afresh.” It sounded weak in her own 
ears. To Mark it seemed very likely, but he misconstrued the 
hidden motive. 

“I see. Then you would have married me, leaving me in ig- 
norance? Allowing me to adopt the child that you say is my 
own?” 

“No!” She flinched. “I was going to tell you that day at the 
boat-house. But you went off and I felt outraged. To have 
suffered all that I did for you — it was terrible when you returned 
and held no memory of me — it broke my heart. I couldn’t bear 
it! And then” — her eyes filled with tears — “for you, above all 
men, to judge me!” 

Again there was a ring of truth in the broken voice, but it came 
too late. A consummate actress, he decided. Ruth’s speech 
flashed up in his mind, with its insidious suggestion: “Perhaps 
she has been on the stage?” 

Had the vision of childhood seen deeper than that obscured by 
mature passion? The young girl’s naive infatuation he had flung 
aside for the sake of a woman whom he had placed miles above 
her — the mother of Anthony. 

His glance swept over Sabine; the costly velvet of her dress, 
the old lace that enhanced it and the beautiful ring on her finger. 
Who had paid for these luxuries? Since there had been no Cruik - 
shank. He was hardly aware of his silence, immersed in his pain- 
ful thoughts. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


307 


“Mark?” 

He looked up, startled. Their eyes met. In his she read a 
merciless disbelief. 

“You think I’m lying?” With a jerk she drew out from its 
hiding-place the Vallance heirloom and held it up. “Look at 
this!” The great ruby caught the blaze of the fire. It lay upon 
her open palm like a liquid drop of blood. “You gave me this” — 
she stooped to him — “on the first night we were together. You 
said it was a proof of your love — that you looked on me as your 
wife.” 

Dazed, Mark stared at it. Before he could find any rejoinder 
she had slipped the chain over her head and let it fall across his 
knees. There followed a strained silence. 

By some wave of telepathy she guessed the path his mind was 
taking. Left in charge of his property with no limit to her powers, 
the keys of the safe in her keeping, it would have been simple to 
annex it. 

A thief? Her pride rose in revolt. She had borne much. This 
was the end. She drew herself up to her full height and loosened 
the reins of her anger. 

“Take it back! I’ve done with you. You don’t belong to my 
world — a world outside this petty village with its hypocrisy and 
its cant! You’re the last of a dying generation who ruled by the 
power of their name alone, without justice or simple mercy. I’d 
be ashamed to be your wife!” Her voice sank lower but still 
vibrated with passionate rebellion and scorn. “I’ve loved you, 
Mark, with all my heart. I gave you my body and bore you a 
son. But he’ll be better without a father — he’ll grow up a finer 
man. I shall teach him to look to the people for justice, and not 
to the squires of Liddingcombe. When he learns the facts, hew 
you treated his mother, he, in turn, shall judge you” 

She paused on the word, her eyes ablaze, a spot of colour on 
either cheek. She looked like some avenging spirit upborne on 
a wave of tragedy. Then, without waiting for Mark to recover 
from the shock of her ruthless condemnation, she turned and 
made her way to the door. 


3°8 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


On the threshold she wheeled round. Mark’s eyes had fol- 
lowed her. Tortured by conflicting thoughts, he tried to speak 
but the words would not come. 

She held up her hand imperiously, disregarding the prayer on 
his face. 

“I will leave you the supreme proof — the letters you have 
written me. Your love of truth will be satisfied.” With this, she 
passed out. 

In the dim hall she paused, trembling, her hands pressed to her 
bosom, struggling for self-control and aware of a triumph that 
tasted of death. 

She had lost Mark and her faith in mankind. There re- 
mained — what? 

Anthony? A perpetual reminder of his father. There was no 
love in her heart as she mounted the steep old stairs and entered 
the nursery. 

Dillon rose from before the fire, gave her mistress one glance 
and wrung her hands. 

“Pack, Dillon! Everything.” Sabine’s voice was as hard as 
her face. “We’re off by the first train to-morrow.” 

Dillon moaned. She tried to put in a feeble protest but her 
mistress was adamant. 

“There’s no time for talk now. I must leave everything in 
order. You can come to me when you’ve finished.” 

From the room beyond rose a child’s cry: 

“Muvver, muwer!” 

Sabine turned instinctively; then her body stiffened. Mark’s 
son. She went out, ignoring him. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


D ILLON rocked herself by the fire, her apron thrown over 
her head in an abandonment of grief. But slowly she 
became aware of another voice that was joining in with a 
shrill refrain cut by sobs: 

“Dilly, Dilly! Turn to me!” 

Conscience-stricken, she rose to her feet. 

“Coming, my lamb. Here’s old Dilly!” A sharp stab of rheu- 
matism caught her as she hurried across and her hand went to 
her back. 

Yes, she was getting old indeed and who would be left to look 
after the child so heedlessly brought into the world? Uncon- 
sciously she had transferred a large share of the devotion lavished 
on Sabine in the past to the younger generation. Now, her heart 
was sore with rebellion. Sabine’s sharp command and disdain 
for a word of explanation to the confidante of long years had 
been hard enough to bear without that last grim offence: to turn 
her back on her innocent child. Anger dried the old woman’s 
tears. 

She carried the lamp to the inner room. Anthony was sitting 
up in his cot, eyes wide with fear. The light fell on his wet 
cheeks, still rosy from deep slumber out of which he had been 
disturbed by his mother’s stormy passage. His instinct told him 
that something was wrong, and the darkness intensified his terror, 
together with the indifference displayed to his reiterated needs. 
Now he refused to be comforted. 

“Muwer, muwer! Want muvver!” He wailed it into Dillon’s 
bosom, struggling away from her embrace. The sight of her own 
tear-stained face only increased his sense of panic. He was work- 
ing himself into a fever and Dillon wisely changed her tactics. 

309 


3io 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


She released him and stood erect. 

“Now, Master Anthony! If you’ll be good I’ll tell you a 
sacret. Your mother’s too busy to come just yet, for we’re off in 
the puff-puff to-morrow.” 

Anthony’s knuckles came down from his eyes. He caught his 
breath with a last, sharp sob. Here was news! It penetrated his 
cloud of woe and conjured up a way to get equal with Roger- 
Lee — that experienced traveller! He gulped hard and found his 
voice, still mistrustful but interested: 

“A weal puff-puff?” 

Dillon nodded. 

“And a rale train for miles and miles. But only if ye sleep 
first.” 

“Oo!” Anthony’s smile stole out like April sunshine after a 
shower. He considered the bribe with a snuffle. Dillon proceeded 
to wipe his nose. k 

“Blow!” she commanded. 

Anthony “blew” — a performance he detested, but his mind 
was filled with graver matters. There was Big Man, for instance. 
Would he be there at the end of the journey? He consulted 
Dillon on this point. 

The old woman gave a start, for a sudden luminous idea had 
flashed across her. Anthony, with his ruffled curls and the eager 
light in his tear-stained, cherub’s face, seemed to her irresistible. 
Who could hold out against such love? Not Mark, who had 
already shown to the keen-eyed old woman by many little words 
and deeds his tenderness towards his son. If only she knew what 
had happened in that fateful interview? But, since Sabine 
guarded the secret, Dillon must act in the dark and be led by her 
own wisdom. She glanced at the clock, her plans shaping, then 
back again at her charge. 

“ ’Tis longin’ to see him that you are?” There was no need 
for any response; it was written on his face. “Then ye shall — 
this blessed night.” 

Anthony quivered with excitement. 

“He’s turn?” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3ii 

Dillon nodded, smiling. 

“An" if yell promise to behave — jist kiss the master and wish 
him good-night — ’tis meself will be takin’ ye down for a minute.” 

Anthony scrambled up. 

“Now?” His voice was shrill with delight. 

Dillon’s answer was to strip a blanket from the cot and wrap 
it round the little figure. She gathered him up in her arms. 

“Hush then, or ye’ll spoil the surprise.” 

Nervously, she opened the door and peered down the dim 
passage. There was no sign of Sabine and she moved on with her 
precious burden. When she came to the bend in the stairs she 
drew a breath of relief, for the lamp was still burning in the hall. 
It testified to Mark’s vigil. 

The drawing-room door stood ajar. Dillon tapped, her heart 
in her mouth. No one answered. She mustered her courage and 
advanced, the glib excuse on her lips: Master Anthony would not 
sleep until he had seen Mr. Vallance, who would forgive the lib- 
erty as the child was “fretting himself sick.” 

At first she thought the room was empty. She stood blinking 
on the threshold, Anthony wriggling in her arms, anxious to be 
put down. Then, as her eyes pierced the shadows beyond the 
radius of the lamp, she gave an exclamation of horror. Mark lay 
crumpled up on the floor, motionless, one arm extended with, be- 
yond it, a fallen crutch. His face was hidden. She could see only 
the stiffness of his body in an attitude suggesting death. The 
blood ebbed from her heart and her limbs felt paralysed. 

She was roused by a whimper from her charge, and the con- 
sciousness of a nearer danger. Already frightened once to-night 
the little fellow must not guess at the tragedy before him. The 
habit of long years rose to her aid. 

“He’s sleeping,” she whispered through parched lips and tip- 
toed back into the hall. “It would niver do for us to wake him. 
Hush then!” as Anthony began to protest vehemently. “Didn’t 
you promise me to be good? With Himself worn out by his long 
journey. To-morrow you shall see him, dearie, an’ Dilly shall 
tell him how well ye’ve behaved.” She swept him on up the stair- 


3 12 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


case. “There’ll be all them grand soldiers to play with and the 
little tents.” Her breath gave out. Thankfully she clutched at 
the knob of the nursery door, passed through and laid him in his 
still warm bed. “Now, could you be a soldier yourself and brave 
enough to lie there alone whilst Dilly gits the poor gintleman a 
pillow to lay beneath his head? She’ll be back before ye begin 
to miss her and give you the lamp for company.” Anthony, still 
aggrieved but put on his mettle, considered the test. 

“Dilly will hear you if ye call. But you will not; and ’tis 
proud Himself will feel of you when I tells him by and by.” She 
tucked the clothes firmly round him. “Just think of the puff-puff 
to-morrow.” 

With an anxious glance she departed, torn between her love for 
the child and the need for immediate action. Sabine must know. 
Her lips tightened as she tapped at her mistress’ door. A clear 
voice answered her summons. 

“Come in!” Sabine was seated before her writing-table, with 
sheaves of bills and household books piled at her elbow, making 
up the last accounts. “Well?” Her manner was impatient. 

“ Tis not well,” said Dillon grimly, “with Himself as good as 
dead below, God rest his soul!” She crossed herself. “Will you 
come, plaize, an’ look at him? And remimber the child of ye 
both that’s been sobbin’ his heart out, the cratur’, for a mother 
that turned her back on him.” She paused. Sabine had sprung 
to her feet. 

“What do you mean? Is Mark ill?” There was panic on her 
face, but Dillon, for once, was ruthless. 

“Ye’d best see with your own eyes the end of this day’s bad 
business.” She backed as she spoke, a finger pressed to her lips, 
with a jerk of her head towards the distant nursery. 

Sabine, her heart thudding, followed. At the head of the stairs, 
Dillon stopped. 

“I’ll be going to Master Anthony.” She whispered the words, 
her eyes on her mistress. “You’ll be better without the owld 
nurse that’s only useful for the packing!” She turned, but Sa- 
bine caught her arm. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i3 


“Dilly?” There was a world of despair in her dark eyes. 

Her clutch tightened, she gave the arm the little shake that in 
childhood days had marked the collapse of her quick tempers. 
It awoke long-dead memories in the faithful old servant’s breast 
and broke up her frozen calm. 

“You’re wanting me?” Her lips quivered. 

Sabine, speechless, nodded her head. In silence they went 
downstairs. 


Elizma was sipping a cup of hot milk in front of the dining- 
room fire and spinning out the performance, for she wished to 
talk to her husband, when a bell rang through the silent house, 
startling them both. 

“What can it be? At this hour of night!” She looked up 
anxiously at Orde who was leaning against the mantelpiece. 

“A mistake, I expect.” Taverner frowned. He had been try- 
ing to get his wife off to bed. The walk had been tiring and she 
was in an excited mood, stirred by the events of the evening. 

They heard Pluffles go to the door and then a woman’s anxious 
voice. 

“Stay there! You’re not to go out in the draught.” Taverner 
strode to the door, vexed at the interruption. 

Sabine stood in the hall, white-faced and powdered with snow. 
She gave a gasp of relief when she saw him. 

“You’re still up? Thank God! Mark’s so ill — he must have 
fallen — we found him unconscious on the floor.” She poured it 
out breathlessly. “I didn’t know what to do and I thought — I 
thought — ” She began to stammer, suddenly conscious that she 
was asking an unwarrantable favour from a man so famous in his 
profession. 

“You’d like me to come back with you?” Taverner was seized 
with pity at the sight of her haggard face. 

“If you will? I can’t wake him and — ” 

Elizma interrupted her, disobedient to Orde’s commands, stand- 
ing behind them in the doorway. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3*4 

“Of course. Come in, you poor dear! I’ve been thinking of 
you all the evening.” 

Sabine gave a gasp of relief. She stumbled forward to be 
caught in Elizma’s tender arms. 

“I mustn’t stay — not a minute. But Dr. Stonar is out of 
reach — it’s so far to Lidding St. Mary. Your husband’s so good, 
but I feel I’m taking advantage. In this weather — ” 

“Nonsense!” Taverner broke in. “I’ll come, with pleasure, 
and do what I can. Just wait in there while I get my coat.” 

Elizma drew Sabine towards the fire. He could hear them 
whispering together. He knew that his wife would not rest until 
she had gleaned further details. He could learn them himself as 
they went along. He called Pluffles on one side. 

“Get Mrs. Taverner to bed, if you can, and leave the door 
unbolted. No one need sit up. I may be kept some time.” 

“H’yes sir.” The man looked indignant, foreseeing another 
snowy walk for his master. On his holiday too! It wasn’t fair, 
when he worked so hard. 

Taverner re-entered the room. 

“I’m ready, if you are.” He smiled at Sabine, and bent down 
to kiss his wife. “You’ll turn in directly I’ve gone?” 

“I will.” Her golden eyes sought his. “Don’t hurry back. I 
shall understand.” Lowering her voice, she whispered softly, “Be 
good to Sabine — there’s terrible trouble.” 

He nodded gravely. 

“You’re not to worry.” 

She frowned and spoke audibly: 

“There’s no need. I expect it’s only a fainting attack. Mr. 
Vailance looked dreadfully tired and of course he’s not strong yet. 
But anyone can see he’s healthy.” 

Her optimism cheered Sabine. Elizma watched her cross the 
hall with a firmer step and pass out by Taverner’s side into the 
blinding flurry of snow that flung stray flakes through the open 
door. 

Pluffles closed it hurriedly, then moved aside, his stout body 
barring the entrance to the room with its dying fire, his eyes 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i5 

fixed on his mistress who stood, pensive, at the foot of the 
stairs. 

She glanced at him absently; then a faint smile curved her lips. 

“I haven’t finished my milk yet.” 

“No, madam?” He looked surprised. “Then it must be cold. 
I’ll heat it h’up and bring it to your bedroom door.” 

“Which means that I’m to go to bed?” She laughed outright. 

Pluffies coughed behind his hand in an apologetic manner. 

“H’of course, madam, that’s h’as you like. But Brigitta has 
lit your fire upstairs and the coal is getting a trifle diminished. 
Mr. Taverner h’impressed on me the need for h’economy.” 

“Quite right — I’ll take your advice! Never mind about the 
milk. Good night, Pluffles.” 

“Thank you, madam. Good night, madam.” He watched her 
pass up the narrow staircase with a step that had grown less light 
of late, proud in having fulfilled his mission. There was reverence 
on his face. He had lived with Taverner “from boy to man,” as 
he expressed it, and he was one of the family in a sense that the 
modern retainer with his short service rarely attains to. Every 
year his master put by a sum entered in Pluffles’ name to safe- 
guard him in old age from the chance of penury. Meanwhile he 
held a position of authority in the house. His word was law below 
stairs, and his intimate pride was a faint resemblance to the man 
he adored, augmented by the gift of clothes which Taverner 
handed over to him long before they showed signs of wear. In 
these, on his holidays, he would attend race-meetings, his favourite 
form of sport. Elizma, as a young bride, had won the faithful 
servant’s heart by appealing to him for advice in her choice of a 
“winner.” Pluffles had placed many a pound with his sporting 
friends on her behalf and once — an unforgettable moment — he 
had driven down to Epsom with her on a coach as the “guest” of 
her brother-in-law, where he played nurse to the children. 

“Bless her,” he said inaudibly as he turned out the dining-room 
lamp. “I hopes that h’it will be a girl. The master would like 
it — a pigeon pair.” 

Meanwhile Sabine and Taverner were making their way, arm- 


316 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


in-arm, under his big umbrella down the deserted village street. 
The snow and the darkness impeded their movements and the 
conversation was disjointed, but as they passed Pratt’s shuttered 
shop Taverner risked a hurried question: 

“You don’t happen to know if Vallance had any minor wounds 
beside the damage done to his ankle?” 

“Yes. A small piece of shrapnel that they took out of his left 
shoulder. But that healed long ago.” She slipped and tightened 
her clasp on his arm. 

“Hold up ! ” said Taverner cheerfully. He reverted to his topic. 
“There was nothing else?” 

She thought for a moment. 

“Nothing that counted, though he told me that he had a narrow 
shave with a fragment of shell that ploughed through his hair 
but glanced off, lucidly. It left a slight flesh wound. He showed 
me the scar one day.” 

“Ah!” Taverner said no more. 

They reached at last the long stone wall, the boundary of the 
“Enchanted Garden,” and the porch where the stems of the 
creepers were burdened by the gathering weight of the snow. 
Dillon opened the door to them. 

“Any change?” asked Sabine quickly. 

“No m’m, he just the same.” She took their coats and the 
wet umbrella and stood back for them to pass into the drawing- 
room. 

Mark lay on the floor in the same stiff attitude, a cushion 
placed beneath his head. Sabine explained to the surgeon that 
they had been afraid to move him on account of the injured ankle. 

“We think that in falling, he hit his head on the edge of the 
fender.” She spoke in a nervous whisper. 

Taverner nodded. She watched his long skilful hands pass 
over the prostrate figure and linger on the damaged limb. 

“You’re probably right.” He looked up. “He fainted or slipped 
and instinctively tried to safeguard his right side, then came down 
with his full weight. Just come here for a moment.” He saw 
Sabine hesitate and added quickly, “He’s quite unconscious.” He 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i7 

bent lower, examining the fair head, parting the hair. “Is this 
where the shrapnel caught him?” 

“Yes.” 

“I thought so. There’s a scar. Well — ” He rose to his feet. 
“I don’t think you need be anxious. It’s slight concussion. 
Probably he’ll come round in an hour or two and, provided the 
ankle has escaped, which I can’t guarantee at present, he’ll not 
be much the worse for it. I think that we might undress him 
and get him up on that sofa. Unless there’s a man about the 
place who would help me to carry him to his room?” 

“There isn’t. The gardener lives in the village — Steve too — 
but I could help.” 

Taverner frowned. 

“He’s too heavy. Just fetch me all he wants and your old 
nurse will lend a hand. We’ll get him more comfortable.” 

Sabine obeyed. She was aware of a subtle change in Taverner’s 
manner. Immersed in his case, he was aloof and authoritative. 
Friendship had faded into the background. She waited patiently 
in the hall whilst the pair saw to Mark, with a brief interval when 
she ran up to the nursery. Anthony was sound asleep, the house- 
maid, roused by Dillon, keeping guard in the next room. 

When she returned she found the surgeon at the foot of the 
stairs. 

“Where can I talk to you? He hasn’t recovered consciousness. 
Dillon will fetch me when he does.” 

“In here,” she opened the dining-room door. “I must light the 
lamp.” 

He struck a match and watched her turn up the wick. 

“Now — ” He drew a chair forward. “Sit down and listen to 
me. I don’t think this is anything beyond a mere accident, but 
there’s more in the case than meets the eye. I must tell you that 
I disagree utterly with the diagnosis that Vallance is suffering 
from shell shock. I suspect an injury to the brain. He gave 
me the clue himself to-night when he complained of a recurrent 
smell for which he could find no explanation.” 

Her eyes widened. 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i8 

“A smell of apples?” 

“Yes. I see he has told you about it. When did he first 
mention this?” 

“The day after he returned. Since then it has been frequent.” 

“Exactly.” Taverner frowned. “Would you say that he was 
susceptible to scents? For instance, does he notice particularly 
those of flowers?” 

“No. That was what surprised me. I remember one day when 
he had worried Johnson over the apple question, I suggested that 
it might be a vase of heliotrope in the room. You know how 
strong it is in an enclosed space? I held it up to him, but he 
couldn’t smell anything!” She saw Taverner’s face light up with 
a subtle touch of triumph. 

“That confirms me in my opinion. It’s another symptom of 
what we call ‘Jacksonian fits.’ I don’t want to be too technical 
so I’ll try and explain simply.” He was choosing his words with 
care. “These fits are the result of a depressed fracture — that is, 
a splinter of bone driven inwards by a blow, pressing upon the 
brain. When they arise from a lesion of the sensory area there 
is often no muscular demonstration or anything you would call a 
fit, but the patient is affected by a sensation of smell, or it may 
be taste, which is unaccountable. Do you follow me?” 

“Quite,” said Sabine. 

“Such an attack may be followed by a period of weakness and 
reaction similar to the one you describe when ValJance could not 
detect the strong scent of the heliotrope and — ” 

She interrupted him; her quick brain forging ahead: 

“Then you think the wound in the head was not so slight as 
they imagined?” 

“I think it’s the cause of his mental trouble.” Taverner’s face 
was very grave. “I propose, when he is well enough, to give Val- 
lance my opinion. If he cares to act upon it I shall carry him off 
to a nursing home in London and operate. There should be no 
delay. Of course it’s still open to doubt. We’ve only this single 
symptom to go by, so slight that it was overlooked in a busy 
hospital where his ankle seemed of the first importance — beyond 
the loss of memory which they ascribed to shell shock.” 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


3i9 


Sabine caught her breath. 

“You mean — ” She clutched Taverner’s arm. “He’ll re- 
member — after the operation?” 

“I can’t say. If it’s successful, the brain will recover its normal 
functions and, in course of time, memory may slowly return. 
There’s a chance. But that’s not the reason why I recommend the 
course. He can’t go on as he is. It’s dangerous. You can never 
tell what an injury to the brain may lead to.” 

“No.” She controlled herself with an effort, for the wild hope 
had opened out a vista of possibilities which she hardly dared to 
contemplate. 

Taverner’s eyes were averted. He had fixed them absently on 
the old family portrait on the wall opposite; the uniform of scar- 
let and gold, so picturesque in contrast with the modern note of 
khaki. 

“I don’t connect the present condition with his head-wound,” 
he went on, “though occasionally unconsciousness supervenes 
when the convulsion spreads to the opposite cortical area. We 
shall have to keep him very quiet. I gather” — he hesitated — 
“that he was disturbed before this happened? You must forgive 
my questioning you.” He gave her a quick glance. 

“You’re right. We had a painful scene.” The colour mounted 
to her brow but she continued stubbornly, “He refused to believe 
me when I told him the events of the past years. I had gone up- 
stairs to start packing. We were off — by the first train.” 

Taverner frowned. 

“You won’t go now?” He saw the doubt creep into her eyes. 
“You can’t — it’s impossible. There mustn’t be any further 
shock. Remember, you’re dealing with a man whose mental con- 
dition is impaired. We share the responsibility. If it comes to 
that, it’s part of our debt to the men who have fought and suf- 
fered for us. There’ll be plenty of people to forget, when once 
peace is ratified.” His voice grew hard for a moment. “But I 
don’t class you with those.” Across the corner of the table he 
held out his hand to her. The firm fingers closed on hers. He 
watched the struggle in her face. 


320 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


At last she threw back her head and met his eyes. 

“You can count on me. I will do whatever you think best.” 

“Thank you.” He smiled gravely. “It may need all your pa- 
tience. You must stay in the background at present and, if he 
agrees to the operation, I shall not let him return home until I’m 
fully satisfied. You will have the harder part to bear, waiting 
here without a sign — although we shall keep you fully informed.” 

“I could come to London — be somewhere near.” For the 
moment she had forgotten the rupture between herself and Mark. 
She was picturing him in danger, dreading, as most women dread, 
the thought of the surgeon’s knife. 

The slip enlightened Taverner. Her love had survived the blow 
to her pride. He answered her, with inward pity. 

“I should not allow you to see him.” 

“But I could call and inquire — or leave a letter,” she per- 
sisted. 

“No use. It wouldn’t reach him. He will have no communica- 
tion with the outside world until he leaves.” 

She looked at him rebelliously. 

“I’m just to stay here and wait?” 

“I’m afraid so. You and Anthony.” 

At the mention of the latter’s name her full memory returned. 
She flared out impulsively. 

“He doesn’t believe that the child is his!” 

Into Taverner’s grey eyes came an unlooked-for sympathy. 

“He will — when I’ve done with him.” 

“You think so?” The cry was wrung from her heart. 

Taverner nodded. 

“He’ll see things in another light.” He would give her at 
least the blessed hope. “So you must cheer up, Sabine.” 

Her face worked pitifully. Suddenly her control snapped. Her 
head went down on to her hands and the frozen flood of tears, 
pent up these long hours, found vent, thawed by his kindness. 

Taverner did not try to check them. Here was relief for the 
strained nerves. He went noiselessly from the room his mission 
performed, back to his patient. 




THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


321 


Sabine sobbed on. At last the door was opened softly. She 
became aware of warm old arms that stole round her; a crooning 
voice sounded in her ear: 

“Hush then, Miss Sabine, honey!” 

Startled, she raised her head. 

“Dilly! And I’ve been wicked to you!” 

Through her blurred eyes she could see the familiar wrinkles 
gathering round those of the fond old nurse, at once tender and 
humorous. 

“ ’Dade and you was not, Miss Sabine, 'Tis owld Dilly that 
misjudged ye.” Stoutly she denied the charge. But in her face 
was a hint of triumph. She had recovered her lost “child.” 


CHAPTER XXIX 


T HE sun had been shining brilliantly all day over a calm 
sea where not a ripple broke the surface of blue that faded 
into green in the shallows above the shelving rocks. It 
was hard to believe it was still winter, for the grass that fringed 
the edge of the combe was a vivid emerald and the tips of the 
boughs jutting out from the hazel grove were already forming little 
cones, aware of the rising sap. 

Sabine had been touched by the spell of this premature awaken- 
ing, full of restless impulses. Wandering down to the beach be- 
yond the stone jetty, she had hired one of the few small boats 
with a sudden longing for exercise and had rowed out towards the 
point. It was an unusually high tide and the water had risen to 
within a foot of the floor of Crusoe’s Cave. She wondered if it 
were possible to reach it in this fashion. The adventure tempted 
her. Standing upright in the boat she let it drift along the cliff, 
sounding the depth with a scull until she heard the keel grate on 
the ledge of rock beneath the opening. Then, with the painter in 
her hand, she jumped and from the sandy floor drew her craft 
still closer, securing it by means of a scull thrust into a cleft at the 
entrance. 

She had not been there since the days when she had bathed 
with Elizma, but everything seemed untouched. She pulled out 
the deck-chair from under its old tarpaulin and settled down in a 
shaft of sunlight. 

In three days Mark would be home, They had not met since 
the night of their painful scene. Following Taverner’s advice she 
had kept to her room with the excuse — that was justified — of a 
chill, the result of her snowy walk. On the Tuesday following, 


322 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


323 


Mark had gone up to London and entered the nursing home. The 
operation had been successful from a surgical point of view, but 
there followed a long period of strain for Sabine and the constant 
doubt regarding the patient’s mental condition. But little by 
little the careful watchers realized a change in him. His memory 
was slowly clearing, the lost years coming back with misty breaks 
in the sequence, and at last Elizma could tell her friend that Mark 
had been inquiring for her. Now he could recall the period of 
fighting in that third year of the war after his leave in England. 

Sabine was thinking of this stage as she lay back in the low 
chair looking over the calm sea. It seemed a strange paradox that 
the veil now obscured those very months which had proved her 
sorest trial. In due course he would remember the hour of his 
narrow escape from death. If only he could forget the rest and 
return to her with unimpaired confidence! She was harassed by 
the fear of a sudden revulsion of feeling when light should break 
in on him regarding their second engagement and her perversion 
of the truth. But Taverner had decided that Mark was fit for 
normal life. He had left Nature to her task without any outside 
prompting, with one exception to the rule. Mark had been told of 
his wife’s death and of his inheritance. Elizma had undertaken 
the task in the last week when Mark had been a guest of theirs 
at their house, constantly under Taverner’s eye, a final test of his 
condition. Mark was impatient to return to Liddingcombe, and 
Elizma guessed the motive that underlay the desire. He had held 
no communication with Sabine or anyone outside the Home, 
obedient to the surgeon’s wish; but Elizma had supplied him with 
news of the woman he loved and of his little son, recounting 
events of the summer when she had been at the Ferry House and 
ignoring subsequent disaster. He did not guess that she held the 
full history of their romance and this made him cautious in his 
questions. Although at times she was sorely tempted to admit to 
a greater knowledge, wisdom held her back. But to Sabine she 
wrote the full account of their long conversations, comforting her 
with the assurance of the love she divined and the promise of 
future happiness. 


324 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


It seemed unbelievable to the lonely woman in Crusoe’s Cave. 
She was haunted by the fear of some further stroke of Fate, 
longing yet dreading to see her lover. Would he find her changed? 
She looked down at her hands where the wedding ring hung 
loosely, for her fingers were thinner, betraying the strain, that 
had seemed never-ending, of the weeks that had followed 
Christmas Day. She was not the same radiant creature who had 
lazed there in bathing-dress on that golden day last summer, so 
confident in her warm beauty. Sorrow had left its mark on her. 

The sun was beginning to lose its power, sinking, towards the 
rim of the sea, and she shivered, suddenly aware of a fresh wind 
that had sprung up, forming a ripple on the water that sent the 
boat moored below bumping against the cliff. She replaced the 
chair, with a glance at the cupboard above, remembering the 
toast she had drunk with Mark and the libation offered to Nep- 
tune, in the innocent hours of their love. She was caught by a 
wave of superstition. Through invoking a pagan deity had they 
brought down on themselves the wrath of a higher Power? Or 
simply through breaking divine laws set in motion the endless 
cycle of cause and effect that Elizma preached — that balance 
held between good and evil? 

Her mind recoiled from the problem, which frightened her by 
its vastness. Was free will a mockery, releasing through a single 
act of a human being machinery that God Himself could not 
check? She stood for a moment, hands clenched, mastering a 
feeling of panic, conscious of her impotence. She had never 
believed in predestination, which reduced man to the level of a 
trapped creature in the hands of a merciless Creator. For what 
was the use of free will if a man could not work out his salvation? 
It were better to be an animal, obeying blindly natural instincts. 

Then, granted that man held the power to control his fate, 
where did God come in? A God who permitted man to act con- 
trary to divine order for some purpose veiled in mystery! What 
part did He play in human existence outside the narrow bounds of 
religion? 

She found the question hard to answer as she stared over the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


325 


open sea. But the thought filtered through her mind that to 
those who would not accept orthodox Church pronouncements 
with their comfortable hopes and beliefs, God must stand for 
eternal justice, not in this world, but the next. God was the 
Judgment Day. 

Then what became of the “mercy” that Dillon believed in so 
firmly and of that amazing sacrifice, the lonely figure on the 
Cross? Even the dying thief had been pardoned, irrespective of 
his deeds. Why? Dillon would explain it by the theory of “re- 
pentance.” Could repentance wipe out sin and weigh the eternal 
scales of justice? 

Repentance: the very sound of the word was a menace to Sa- 
bine’s pride. If man were captain of his soul, he should have the 
courage of his actions. To repent was to admit failure; a nega- 
tion of that free will which made him superior to the beasts. Was 
this in truth what God designed? The return of that priceless 
gift, man’s will submerged in the Almighty’s? 

She gave herself a little shake and stepped down into the boat. 
As she pushed off, a pearly shell caught her eye. She reached 
forward and captured it where it lay, loose, on the sandy shelf. 
She would take it home for Anthony. Placing it in her jersey 
pocket she settled down to the task of piloting her unwieldy craft 
out into open water. At last, free of sunken rocks, she settled 
the oars in the creaking rowlocks and began to pull steadily. A 
gull passed, swooping low on its homeward flight to the cliffs, 
uttering its mournful cry which was taken up by another. Over 
the heights of Lidding Moor a veil of mist was descending, whilst 
shadows crept along the beach to the edge of the line of sea-weed. 

She glanced at the dark mass of rocks beyond the cove as she 
passed. Here she had first broken through the armour of Mark’s 
silence. Across the combe she could see the fringe of the hazel 
grove, lace-like against the sky. It held the secret of that hour 
when her passionate will had prevailed. Did she regret the 
“breathless moment”? Her pride cried “no!” But something 
deeper than pride was stirred from its hiding-place in the recesses 
of her soul. Stubbornly she resisted the voice, still as the great 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


326 

expanse of water with its curved sky-line that brought home the 
miracle of the round earth, swung like a globe in infinite space. 

A wave broke against the stern and the cold spray, blown by 
the breeze, touched her face like fresh fingers in a furtive caress 
from the sea. She could hear the faint grinding noise of the tide 
ebbing over the shingle as she turned the bows of the boat shore- 
ward. It awoke an earlier memory: the tug of the great rollers 
that had caught her heart-strings on the night when she had 
leaned out of the darkened window, alive to the first tumult of 
love. She could see again Mark’s face and the sudden longing in 
his eyes, that was reflected in her own. She had satisfied that 
longing with the free gift of body and soul, without the material 
sense of a bargain that marriage and maintenance imply. Regret 
it? Never! She had won through. It was absurd to dread the 
future; her will would carry all before it. 

She turned her head. Near the groin, that broke the force of 
the waves in stormy weather, stood an old fisherman, picturesque 
in his faded jersey, trousers rolled up to the knees, ready to wade 
into the surf and draw the boat into safety. With a last spurt 
she defeated his purpose, shipped her oars and sprang out. 

“There!” She smiled with a touch of mischief into the weather- 
beaten face. “You couldn’t have done it better yourself.” 

“That’s trew, ma’am.” He watched her draw out her purse 
and open it. “Be them oars easier? I giv’ un a rare dab o’ 
grease.” He leaned forward and smeared the rowlocks with an 
appreciative thumb. “Thank you, ma’am.” His rheumy eyes 
surveyed the coins she placed in his palms greedily and went back 
to his boat. “She’d do with a touch o’ paint. But yu can’t get 
it up along — not at a price as would pay for t’trouble.” 

“No, everything’s very dear.” 

“It be, ma’am. ’Tis them profiteers.” 

Sabine smiled as she mounted the slope that led to the sea road. 
Old Higgs was a noted slacker, with a hard-working wife who sup- 
ported him. 

The exercise had made her glow and a fine colour shone in 
her cheeks, but her hands were cold from exposure and she thrust 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


327 


them into her woollen pockets. In the left one was the smooth 
shell. She drew it out and examined it: the delicate curves of 
the little house with its gaping side entrance. How perfect it 
was! She bent closer. A tiny claw had protruded, that of a 
hermit crab. A profiteer of the ocean, living on the toil of an- 
other — the fancy drifted through her mind. It had ousted the 
lawful owner, quite possibly eaten him. Still intrigued by the 
problem of Nature's acceptance of the rule that “Might is Right,” 
Sabine lifted the latch of the door and passed through, her eyes 
fixed on the absurd miniature of a lobster's limb which waved and 
receded, nipping the air. 

“Sabine!” A voice called her with a note of eagerness and 
longing. 

She looked up, startled. Mark was sitting on the little bench 
inside the porch. 

“You!” There was no time for thought. Before he could rise 
she was kneeling before him, her hands desperately clutching his 
arms, her eyes searching his moved face. Even before he stooped 
and kissed her, she knew in her heart that all was well. 


A furtive step crossed the hall. Mark turned his head sharply, 
then smiled at Sabine. 

“It doesn't matter. Every one will know soon.” 

In the speech she detected a touch of the old careless arrogance 
that had been missing these many months. She rose to her feet, 
suddenly shy, aware of her lover-like attitude. 

“Know what?” 

“That we're going to be married. You’ve not changed your 
mind, Sabine?” A swift anxiety clouded his eyes. 

She met them steadily with her own. There was no need for 
an answer in words. After a second she spoke lightly to cover 
the emotion she felt. 

“How did you come here? I didn’t expect you, but you always 
turn up like a Jack-in-the-box!” 

“Do I?” He looked surprised. “The fact was that Taverner 
decided at the last moment to run down to Polrennick for the 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


328 

week-end, so we travelled together and parted at Exeter. In any 
case I was coming on Monday. I was longing to get to you. Say 
you’re glad?” 

“More than glad. If only I’d known. I went out rowing.” 

“So they told me. I’d half a mind to come down to the beach, 
but I wasn’t sure where you’d land, and they said you’d be in to 
tea. Then I hunted for Anthony, but he was nowhere to be found. 
What’s that?” He saw her glance at something she held in her 
hand. 

“It’s a shell. I was afraid I’d crushed it. I picked it up in 
Crusoe’s cave. Take care — there’s a crab inside.” She laid it 
carefully in his palm. 

“A prize?’ He looked up into her face. “Do you remember 
those happy days?” 

“I do.” Joy flooded her. She saw his expression change. 

“By Jove! That’s brought it back. I took a pebble you’d 
given me to the Front as a mascot and I lost it the day before I 
was wounded. Yes, of course — ” He stared past her, submerged 
in a wave of memory. His face grew hard, he straightened his 
shoulders. 

“Don’t think of it now.” She touched his arm, guessing the 
picture conjured up of that forgotten grim defence before the 
German armies wavered. 

“No.” He gave himself a shake. “I’m glad though. It’s 
further progress, as old Taverner would say. You don’t know 
how good they were to me. I never can repay that debt.” He 
stood up and took from the corner a pair of sticks. “Let’s go 
inside. It’s rather public out here.” 

She watched him, a glad light in her eyes. 

“You’ve said good-bye to your crutches?” 

“Yes, but I’m still a lame duck. Will you mind a cripple for 
a husband?” 

She had moved forward but now she turned and glanced at him 
over her shoulder. Before she could answer he broke out: 

“You’re just the same, God bless you! I can see you now on 
that stormy day, looking like that in the archway, with your hair 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


329 


all blown about by the wind. It haunted me — the first time I 
realized you were dangerous!” He followed her into the drawing- 
room and gave a quick glance round him. “New chintzes?” 

She shook her head, then regretted the thoughtless action. 

“Not quite.” 

“Ah.” He closed the door with his shoulder. “I haven’t re- 
membered them — yet. But I shall.” He spoke with grave as- 
surance. “You mustn’t laugh at me, sweetheart.” 

“I couldn’t !” She was indignant. 

Mark’s blue eyes twinkled. 

“I often laugh at myself — but that’s quite a different matter! 
It’s funny how a knock on the head can wipe out one’s memory. 
But it’s coming back, inch by inch. What worries me most is 
how I behaved in those months before my operation. Was I a 
great trouble to you?” 

She hesitated. He sat down on the sofa by her side and took 
her hand in his own. 

“Tell me, dearest? Let’s have no secrets.” 

“Is it wise for you to talk of it?” 

“Quite. I’m perfectly fit. It would be a relief to my mind.” 

She came to a swift decision. She would not wait for the veil 
to lift and for judgment to descend on her. He should have the 
whole truth now, since he was strong enough to bear it. 

“You didn’t remember me when you returned.” She tried to 
keep her voice level. 

Mark looked at her in horror. 

“You mean I didn’t recognize you?” 

“No, but, mercifully, you fell in love with me again, so it 
came to the same thing in the end.” She was trying to minimize 
the shock. “It was a strange experience; to watch you growing 
fond of me, unconscious of all that had passed and interested in 
Anthony without knowing he was your son — ” 

He broke in: “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“How could I?” She smiled proudly. “I was only the house- 
keeper. It was a peculiar position. Don’t you see?” 

“I do. Good Lord!” 


330 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


Her clasp tightened on his hand. 

“You're not to worry. It's over now. But I've something to 
confess, Mark.” 

He saw that she was plainly nervous and he drew her to him. 

“Out with it! So long as it's not another man — ” 

She shook her head, absorbed, unsmiling, and went on, gather- 
ing courage: 

“When, at last, you asked me to marry you I was faced with a 
great temptation — to leave you in ignorance. I couldn't bear to 
spoil the present by dragging up all the past. It seemed too — 
wonderful to have you loving me again.” Against her will, her 
voice faltered. 

“My poor child!” He held her close. “To think of all the 
suffering I've brought on you from first to last, through my own 
damned fault.” His face worked. “It was wrong, Sabine. We 
should have waited. I’ve cursed myself many a time for my 
weakness and that month at Niton.” 

“It was not your fault.” Her love prevailed. “It was mine. 
That's why I was ashamed to tell you when we got engaged and 
you had forgotten all that part. I lied to you. I kept up the 
farce that I was a soldier's widow and that Anthony was his son.” 

He gave an involuntary movement of disbelief and repugnance 
but she went on brokenly: 

“When at last it came out, I found I had shattered your con- 
fidence. That's why you’ve got to know now, even if” — she 
choked — “you judge me.” 

“Judge you? Good God! When I've brought all this misery 
upon you. Why, what do you think I'm made of, Sabine? You’ve 
given me the final proof of your love in telling me all this. Some- 
thing, too, that I hadn't hoped for.” 

She had hidden her face with her hands. He drew them down 
with a masterful touch, forcing her to meet his eyes. 

“I'm going to be equally honest with you. I was disappointed. 
That leave at Niton was spoilt for me by the way you looked on 
our relationship. You seemed to take it all so lightly, to live 
only in the present and to treat it more like an adventure. I 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


33i 


couldn’t blame you. It was my fault. Whatever you think, it 
always is a man’s fault in a case like ours. He may be weak 
enough to claim the old excuse of the flesh, a stronger temptation 
than the woman’s, but he holds the casting vote, and if there’s 
a child he’s to blame. It was Anthony’s birth that opened my 
eyes. It’s to Anthony we must look for judgment. We can never 
undo that wrong, Sabine. The responsibility was mine, but I 
longed for some sign from you of the same feeling. You didn’t 
give it. It altered my opinion of you — of the serious side of 
your character. I couldn’t tell you down at Niton. I arranged 
that the boy should not suffer in the event of my death, but to 
open my heart to you on the subject became more difficult every 
day. It seemed such canting hypocrisy. To accept all that you 
had offered and then ask you to ‘repent’!” His nostrils curled 
scornfully. “I told myself I was narrow-minded. You had lived 
so long abroad that you had adopted a lighter creed, believing 
that love excused all. But I was ashamed when I thought of the 
child. To you he seemed a new delight — just an added element 
of romance. But with me it was never an adventure. It was 
partnership for life; with, or without, marriage. I could never 
look on you as a mistress, nor the child as the usual ‘accident.’ 
It went so much deeper than that.” 

He paused for a moment, then continued: 

“I prayed for my wife’s death. There were times in the 
trenches when my own seemed the better remedy. Though I 
loved you I was disillusioned. You mustn’t mind my saying this, 
because it all belongs to the past. The fact that you were 
ashamed to revert to it when I came back, broken both in mind 
and body, shows me how much I misjudged you. You regret it 
too?” He stopped abruptly. 

Sabine flinched. She was faced at last with a definite decision, 
the choice between the call of her soul and the obstinate pride that 
had become master of her will and actions. Already that after- 
noon there had been an unequal contest between them. Now 
Mark forced the issue. 

In the hush that had succeeded his speech a sound from with- 


332 


THE BREATHLESS MOMENT 


out fell on her ears, the creaking of a mail-cart wheel. It wa 
followed by a low murmur of women’s voices, Johnson’s th* 
shriller, then a child’s glad cry. The door burst open; Anthon; 
stood with excited face on the threshold. 

A hand in a white cotton glove shot out and seized his shoulde 
but, wriggling free, he escaped and ran across the room to Mark. 

“Big Man!” He shouted the welcome. His hat fell back 
Heedless of it, the elastic half-strangling him, he scrambled u\ 
into Mark’s arms. 

Sabine saw the two heads, dark and fair, for a moment meet 
Then her lover balanced the child on his knee; his eyes ra 
searchingly over him. For the first time he recognized Anthon 
as his flesh and blood, but behind the pride in his face was tl * 
pain that he strove to disguise. A lump rose in the mother 
throat. Never could Anthony call him “Father,” and if marria^ 
should result in further children the first-born must be prepare 
to renounce his inheritance. This was what the “breathless r f 
ment” had brought to the pair she loved best. h 

Some wave of telepathy reached the man. He glanced at h 
across the child, and she answered the question in his eyes i 
audibly, her lips shaping the words: 

“I regret it.” 

It came with the force of a physical wrench that brought thf 
tears welling up. She stood convicted by herself: the deepest 
shame that a heart can know. But as she met the love and faith 
in the blue eyes bent to her level a strange peace succeeded the 
storm. Mark’s free arm went round her, the other holding the 
little boy. He narrowed the circle. 

“Kiss your mother!” 

Anthony, wide-eyed, obeyed. There had been a note of com- 
mand in the voice, of virile pride and possession. 

Through the open door Dillon heard it and quivered, her hands 
clasped together. The Saints had remembered an old woman 
Now she could depart in peace. 

THE END 




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